The Wake Up Call
by November'sGuest
Summary: How will the Winchesters pick up the pieces of their lives following the events in Devil's Trap? While in a coma, Dean reaches out to Sam the only way he knows how and John sees that the cost of his revenge may not be worth it.
1. Chapter 1: Not Before Everything

The Wake-Up Call

** Title: **The Wake-Up Call  
**Author: **November'sGuest  
**Summary: **How will the Winchester's pick up the pieces after the events of "Devil's Trap"?  
**Rating:** PG-13 (just in case)  
**Characters:** Dean/Sam/John/Missouri Mosley  
**Category:** AU/Gen/Angst  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own the show or the boys, that pleasure belongs to the WB/CW and Eric Kripke.  
**Spoilers:** Season 1 is fair game.

**A/N**: Thanks to Mady Bay for spending her valuable time editing this and providing lots of handholding and to Sodakey for her beta work on the rewrite. Also, I know that I make some abrupt and incorrect POV switches in here—that's on me, not the betas. I chose to keep them even though I know they are incorrect.

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Chapter One: Not Before Everything

"Dean!" Sam's cry pierced the air and mingled with his brother's agonized screams. He tried to focus on the gun just a few feet away. _Concentrate, Sam, concentrate on the gun and bring it to you, _he thought to himself. _If you don't do this, Dean's gonna die…have to get the gun—_

Another strained, pain-filled cry emerged from Dean. "Dad. Dad, don't you let it kill me."

Astonishment flooded Sam's brain, heart seizing with panic. He tore his eyes from the gun and fixed them on his blood-soaked brother.

"Dad, please…" Dean's voice was cracked in half. His face tightened in anguish one last time before slacking in unconsciousness, head lolling forward, chin coming to rest on his chest.

Fear vice-gripped Sam's heart. "No, Dean! No!" he howled, battering against the unseen force holding him in place. Then he heard his father's voice softly grate, "Stop. Stop it."

There was a lessening, like a weight being lifted off him, and Sam moved. He dove for the gun on the table, got a grip on it. Feeling its metallic coolness in his hand, he aimed directly at his father.

The Demon turned. "Kill me and you kill daddy," it sneered, back in control of its host.

"I know," Sam simply replied before drawing a bead on his father's leg and squeezing the trigger.

The bullet left the chamber in a cloud of smoke. Sam watched his father slump to the floor. Dean quickly followed. Released from the demon's grip, he slumped hard against the wooden floor.

Dean gasped inwardly and coughed up more blood, lungs struggling for oxygen. Sam scrambled to his brother's side

"Dean! Dean? Hey… Oh God, you've lost a lot of blood," Sam choked out, eyes briskly scanning his brother's trembling, soaked body.

"Where's Dad?" Dean breathed, dazed eyes searching.

"He's right here. He's right here, Dean," Sam reassured, throwing a quick look over his shoulder at their dad and then back again to the grimacing, drawn face of his brother.

"Go check on him," Dean choked out.

"Dean?" Sam questioned his brother, unable to believe that, even now, Dean was more concerned for their father's wellbeing than he was for his own. One more reason his brother would forever be _his _hero.

"Go check on him," Dean pleaded, voice breaking with the pain ravaging through him.

Sam glanced back at their father and then again, at his brother. Dean was in worse shape then their father and he didn't want to leave Dean's side, but he couldn't refuse—especially not after all that had happened between them in the last year.

Sam tentatively walked to his dad, still lying on the floor—blood slowly seeping from his leg wound. Was this really Dad or…

He quietly called, "Dad…Dad?"

"Sammy!" John screamed suddenly.

Sam stepped back, flinching.

"It's still alive. It's inside me, I can feel it." John's body trembled and shook. "You shoot me, you shoot me, you shoot me in the heart, Son! Do it now!" He bellowed, struggling to hold fast to the enemy twisting inside.

"Sam, don't you do it, don't you do it," Sam heard Dean implore as his own arm rose and settled on his father, gun trembling in his hand.

"Sam! You gotta hurry, I can't hold onto it much longer. You shoot me, Son! Shoot me!" his father raged. "Son, I'm begging you, we can end this here and now! Sammy!"

"Sam, no," Dean's voice whispered, torn, fearful--anguished.

"You do this! Sammy…Sam!" his father ordered, pleaded.

Sam couldn't do it. He couldn't pull the trigger. He couldn't do it because this was his father and, despite their differences, he loved him. Sam also knew it would destroy Dean and forever change their relationship as brothers—as friends.

"You do this! Sammy!" John Winchester commanded. "Sam," he tried once more, the plea ringing clear in his voice. Without warning, he arched off the floor—head thrown backward—the air above him filling with the terrifying black mist pouring from his body along with his frightful screams. The demon fog seeped through the floorboards and disappeared. John cried out in frustrated disappointment, head banging to the floor in defeat.

Dean's strangled pants for air sharpened. Sam turned. Checking on his brother, he could see Dean's head droop back to the floor in a flood of relief. Leaving his dad to his private grief, Sam rushed back to Dean with an urgent need to help him.

"Dean, hey…are you still with me?" He hesitated, checking Dean's pulse and cradling his brother's head in his lap. Dean was a fighter. Despite the massive amount of blood loss, his heart was beating strongly. At least for now.

"I'm here, Sammy," Dean feebly responded.

It was like Dean sensed Sam's need for encouragement. Sam knew Dean hated being the one needing to be saved. It had always been his brother's job to be the strong one, the big brother with all the answers. He probably felt he was letting Sam down.

Sam gently put his hands under Dean's armpits, intending to help his brother stand. As he did so, Dean's face paled sharply and instantly Sam knew his brother wouldn't be walking out on his own. In one fluid motion, Sam heaved Dean's weight over his shoulder, up onto his back, trying to ignore Dean's soft whimpers, trying to be careful not to jostle him any more than he had to.

"Just hold on," Sam soothed. He turned toward the door, noticing their dad was rising on his own and limping heavily toward them, a makeshift tourniquet tied around his thigh. Wordlessly, John opened the door, allowing Sam to bear his burden to the car. Once Sam reached the Impala, he bent slightly to open the passenger's back door and deftly deposited his brother inside.

Dean groaned with the movement, face paling further.

Noticing his brother's shivering body and chattering teeth, Sam took off his favorite tan jacket and cloaked Dean in its warmth. Sam leaned in close to Dean's face and sought his eyes. Laying a hand gently on his blood-soaked chest, Sam whispered, "Don't worry, you're gonna be fine. The hospital isn't far. We'll…they'll have you fixed up in no time."

This, they both knew, was more for Sam's own reassurance than Dean's. It was obvious Dean was in bad shape.

Dean grunted softly as he gazed up into Sam's face through heavy-lidded eyes. He could _feel_ his blood draining from his body. There were so many things he wanted Sam to know. So many things left unsaid. Things like _I love you_, _I admire the man you've become_, and _I am so proud of you_. He tried to force the words from his wet lips, but all that came out was another mangled half-grunt, half-groan.

Not understanding, Sam squeezed his brother's hand in reassurance before shutting the door behind him and climbing into the driver's seat. John was waiting silently in the front passenger's side. Too silently, in fact. Even as Sam turned the key in the ignition, bringing the car to life with a growl, he could feel his father's glaring disapproval. Sam desperately hoped John would put this conversation on hold—for Dean's sake if for no one else's.

As the jet-black monster roared down the highway, Sam caught his father wince-gasp from the corner of his eye. Hoping to make a peace offering, Sam said, "Look, just hang on. We'll be at the hospital in ten minutes."

John sighed, letting his words come out in a whoosh. "I'm surprised at you Sam. We could have ended this thing. Here, tonight—the whole thing could've been over. I thought we saw eye to eye on this, Son." His father went on. "I thought we had an understanding; this mission comes before _everything_, before me—before everything."

Sam couldn't believe his ears, Dad was a real piece of work. He glanced in the rearview mirror, checking on Dean. His brother was slumped over on the door, eyes barely open, his every breath spilling new blood down his throat and onto his chest. Furious anger at his father welled anew in Sam's heart. Not once had their father asked how Dean was or looked back to check on his elder son's condition. Was his dad cold and indifferent toward Dean like the demon had suggested, or was he just too afraid to look at the results of his obsession?

Again, Sam flashed his eyes to the rearview mirror. This time he was met by Dean's pained gaze, fading green eyes seeking confirmation that Sam had learned his lesson well. _Do you still feel that way, too, Sammy_? Dean's weary face seemed to be asking.

"No, Sir," Sam spat, "Not before _everything_." Sam glanced back into the mirror. He was hoping to find his brother's approval, but Dean's eyes were now dull and downcast, obviously seeing nothing through the heavy lids. His condition was worsening.

A mixture of terror and worry combined, a potent poison in Sam's heart as it came bubbling up his throat. Surprising himself, Sam heard Dean's words to him earlier that day fly from his mouth, "You selfish bastard! All you care about is revenge. Not me, not Dean, not yourself. What?! Are we expendable, easy sacrifices on the John Winchester alter of revenge?"

Twisting his grip tighter around the wheel, Sam said, "What happens after it's over, _Dad_, and all you have left in your life is revenge? Is it really worth it if it costs you everything? Look Dean in the eyes," Sam continued in the space of a breath, gesturing to the backseat, "and tell _him_ how all this is worth it. Tell him—no, tell _me _that we aren't worth living for—because, like it or not, we still need you."

Sam's voice softened before amending, "Look, Dad, we still have one bullet left. We can still—"

Sam's monologue was ripped from his lungs by the sudden impact of a semi truck barreling into the passenger side of the Impala. The light was blinding and the sound was deafening as the Impala exploded in a torrent of twisting metal and shattering glass. It seemed like an eternity before the entwined vehicles finally came to rest several yards from the impact. Several minutes passed before any movement inside the destroyed car could be detected.

Pain, initially that's all there was…fiery, stabbing, throbbing pain. Sam wasn't sure where it was coming from. There was…music, soft music, streaming from the radio, but that was the only sound he heard at first.

Gingerly, he opened his eyes. Big mistake. Bright lights flooding the interior of the car sent cutting shards slicing through his brain. _Now, where did that light come from?_ he thought to himself, still wincing from the shock. _What happened?_ he wondered. This time with more caution, he slowly opened his eyes—barely a crack—and attempted to look around. _Okay, he was in the car, but something was wrong…something had happened… _

Jolted by a flood of memory, Sam's eyes flew open as he remembered being sidelined by the truck. His primary thought was of family, but when he tried to sit upright, he became immersed in his own obliterating pain. Taking a deep breath, Sam winced, pain blistering through his sides and chest. _Possible broken ribs_. And there was an incredible throbbing in the side of his head. _A__ mild concussion,_ he thought. Left wrist was probably broken, too, and there was a sharp ache in his right knee.

As Sam tried to regain control, one penetrating thought urged him on—Dean. He needed to get to his brother. His brother's broken, bleeding body surely couldn't withstand more abuse. And what about Dad? He hadn't made a sound. Angling his whole body to the right let him completely view his father now, but not Dean.

"Dad…Dad, can you hear me?" he called out from swollen lips and a copper laden tongue. No sign of response. He looked his dad over. There were bloody, sweat-mixed rivulets running down his face and neck—covering the front of his shirt. He definitely had a head injury, but Sam could only guess at the seriousness. Sam touched the base of his dad's throat—praying for a pulse.

_Oh, thank God, _relief flooded through him, _there it is—strong and steady._

Sam maneuvered toward Dean. "Dean? Dean can you hear me?"

Silence. Once again using his good arm and leg, Sam propped himself up and twisted around to get a better look, fear running cold in his veins. Shooting knives of fire punctured his sides, causing him to suck in his breath and wrinkle his face. Releasing his breath slowly, he opened his eyes and peered into the back seat, fearfully scouring the darkness for Dean.

His heart skipped a couple of beats when he took in his brother's limp, beaten body. The left side of Dean's face was covered in fresh blood and he was lying propped up against the car door, his neck bent at an odd angle. The most disheartening thing, though, was Dean's blood-soaked clothing. Not only was his entire upper body saturated in wet crimson, but it had breached Dean's jeans—leaving pools of red on his thighs and the car seat. Blood spattered the door around his head in random droplets where his skull had forcefully slammed up against the glass window.

"Dean!" Sam yelled. Dread thickened his leaden limbs. He found himself scrambling to get out of the car—shooting pains be hanged. Sam gathered Dean into his arms as he slid into the car beside him, ignoring well-known edicts to keep the victim still. Pulling Dean across his lap, Sam fought to keep his composure, voice breaking with emotion as he cried, "Dean? Dean? Answer me! Come on, man, open your eyes. Say something!"

"Dean, don't do this to me," he implored, supporting his brother's upper body with his left arm—trying to be careful of his own swollen wrist. Using his right hand, he checked for a pulse. "Please, be there, _be_ there," Sam prayed, begged. Warm relief wrapped around him as a thready pulse beat beneath his fingers. Fishing a forgotten t-shirt from the seat beside him, Sam gingerly began wiping away some of the blood that covered his brother's features and then pressed the shirt into Dean's chest hoping to staunch some of the flow.

Sam shook him. "Dean, can you hear me? It's Sam. I need you to open your eyes and look at me, _please_."

The only reply was a soft, rasping noise coming from deep inside his brother. _God, Dean, that can't be good, _Sam thought, furrows creasing his sweaty brow.

"Just hang in there, Dean, I am gonna get help," Sam assured as he removed his cell phone from his pocket and flipped it open. Using voice dial, Sam clearly enunciated the needed number and then anxiously sputtered, "Hello, 911? I have an emergency. My family and I were in an accident and my brother and dad are hurt. Hurry, we need help." Sam proceeded to give a location as close to their position as possible.

"Yes," he responded to the tinny voice on the line, "They are both unconscious, but both have pulses and are breathing on their own. Please hurry, though, my brother's losing a lot of blood and he's wheezing…I," he stammered, "I don't know how much longer he can hold on." Sam pressed the phone hard into his temple, brooked the tears from his voice.

The operator gave him further instructions and promised someone would be there soon.

"Okay…thanks." Sam ended the call, ignoring the request for him to remain on the line. "Just stay with me, Dean, it won't be long now." He absently patted his brother and laid a hand on the side of Dean's face. Carefully, he drew Dean's head toward him, trying to get a better look at the deep gash in his brow.

Dean's eyelids fluttered lightly and he moaned weakly, "S'aamm?"

"I'm here, right here. Just, stay still. Help's on the way," Sam crooned in an even, calming voice.

Dean's eyes cracked open and he appeared to be assessing the damage done to his little brother. "You...," Dean tried, but he was consumed by a coughing fit that sent racking pains throughout his damaged body. Dean's face crumpled in misery.

Alarmed, Sam commanded, "Don't try to talk, please…just take it easy." Sam's eyes took in the pallor of his brother's face beneath the blood and shuddered.

Not one to be bossed into anything, Dean tried again, croaking, "You….okay?" More coughing followed as his face pinched up, blood foaming at the corners of his mouth.

"I'm fine—a little banged up, but I'll survive. It's you I'm worried about. Please, Dean, try to conserve your energy."

"And…Dad?" The words barely whispered out.

"Dad's here. He's hurt—but I think he's going to be okay. Save your strength and don't talk," Sam persuaded again.

Dean began shaking harder and his breathing seemed to grow more labored as he insisted, "Sammy, I need…to tell you…." Dean paused to take another short breath before locking eyes with Sam. "I'm…proud…of you," he grated out. "I…want you to know that...that, I'm proud to be…your brother."

His brother's weak smile was stolen from his face as Dean's head shifted laxly on Sam's arm, torment once again rendering him unconsciousness.

Sam focused on the two stray tears that had carelessly rolled down both sides of his brother's face. He pulled Dean's head closer, touching their foreheads. Breath hitching in his chest, Sam let the tears stream down his face, unbidden and uncontrollable.

"I love you, too, big brother. Please stay with me. I …can't do this without you. You have to hold on. Please, Dean, for me…do this for me," he cried, knowing Dean could _never_ refuse his heartfelt requests.

Sam drew Dean further into his arms, cradling his brother's head with one hand while wrapping the other around Dean's shoulders protectively. Sam rested his cheek atop Dean's head and coddled him, needing to be closer to his brother, needing Dean's comfort and guidance so much just then. Through his quiet weeping, he listened to his brother's rattling breaths. Dean was still alive, but he was losing the life and death battle with each fleeting moment he lay in Sam's arms, drowning in his own blood.

A loud groan from the front seat broke the stillness as John Winchester woke from his unconscious state. "Dad…?" Sam squeaked from the back seat, glad for his dad's presence just then.

John's head slowly swung from side to side as he clawed his way toward consciousness. "Sam…that you?"

"Yeah, Dad, it's me. You okay?" Sam gushed with relief.

"Son…what…what happened…," John's voice trailed off.

"We had an accident, Dad. Don't you remember the truck hitting us?" questioned Sam, relieved his father was speaking.

"Mmm…yeah, think so…," he answered, memory washing over him like the waves of a violent and stormy sea. "You okay, Sammy?" John tossed back.

"Got some busted bones, but I'm okay. Dad…Dean's _not_ so good, though. There's so much blood and his breathing is all wrong."

Sam's voice sounded so small and lost, like when he was about six years old and had woken up from a night terror. It made John's heart lurch. Sam was frightened, was making no effort to hide his fear, and that was not the man his son had grown to be. Sam never revealed his fears to his father these days. Things with Dean must be bad to evoke such blatant fear from Sam.

Spurred on by growing apprehension and Sam's need, John moved his body forward. Smashing currents of pain smacked John back into place at once. John's injuries made themselves clearly known. He feared one leg was broken and possibly his arm. Something was definitely very wrong because he had pretty, luminescent colors dancing in front of his eyes. John beat down the growing nausea and threatening blackness in an effort to give Sam some comfort just knowing he wasn't alone in the car.

Sam, hearing his father's gasps, yelled out, "Dad, you okay?"

John sucked in a few breaths and steadied himself, waiting for the pain to ease a little. "Yeah, Sam," he grunted, "I'm okay—but I don't think I can get back there. I'm pretty busted up. Tell me about Dean," he gently prompted.

Sam stopped. Dean's breathing had grown noisy enough to be easily heard. "His breathing is irregular and loud…rattles deep in his chest. He, uh, looks like he has a nasty concussion and he he's losing a lot of blood. God, Dad. Can't you hear him?"

Listening intently, John made the connection between the intermittent rasping sound growing louder behind him to Dean's sawing breaths. He hadn't realized that the harrowing noise was coming from Dean. Cold, merciless fingers of panic gripped John's heart. Aching within, he called back to Sam in a calming voice, "And his pulse?"

Sam put two fingertips over the carotid artery in Dean's neck and waited for the familiar thump, thump, thump of his brother's heart. Time was at a standstill as he waited for what he knew_, what he willed_ to be there. Just barely, he caught it. Trembling fingers made it difficult to discern, but it was there.

"Umm…well, it's there…but it's weak and unsteady. Worse than a few minutes ago. Dad…I think…I think we're losing him…" Sam's voice faded as he choked on the words.

"Don't say that, Sam. Don't you dare say that," his father roared back at him, panic beneath his angry reaction. "Dean's strong and he is a fighter—he wouldn't _dare_ give up."

A retort fired to Sam's lips, then died as his ears picked up the far-off sound of sirens. "Thank God," Sam breathed, closing his eyes in a silent thank you to The Big Man Upstairs. Looking down again at his brother, he whispered, "Help's on its way…please, just keep fighting, Dean. Don't you give up on me—don't you dare give up!"

It never even crossed his mind how closely he'd just regurgitated his father's words, or how much he had sounded like John Winchester just then.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2: The Rescue

Chapter Two: The Rescue

In a flurry of flashing, colored lights and loud siren wails, the ambulance and rescue trucks skidded to a halt seconds after Sam finished ditching the contents of the Impala's trunk—along with _most _of their fake IDs and other questionable paraphernalia. _No one should be able to find the stash under all that brush_.

At the first sign of the sirens, Sam had hastily, but gently levered Dean down onto the leather seat before hobbling to the trunk and agonizingly hefting the hidden box of treasures out of the car to be carried and stowed out of sight. He'd nearly dumped the entirety of the contents a few times, but somehow he'd made it despite the stinging, pulling pains screaming in various parts of his body.

He limped back to the Impala and began waving at the EMT's. An onslaught of activity whirled around him as the medics and firefighters rushed the scene with their equipment and their questions. Overwhelmed by the commotion, his own injuries getting the better of him, Sam dropped into the driver's seat, legs jutting out the car door. He twisted so he could watch the emergency technicians work on Dean.

As one of the male EMTs rounded the passenger's side to help a surprisingly muted John, the female medic smiled quickly at Sam and ducked in the back to take Dean's vitals.

"Okay," began John's medic, "looks like we have some moderate head trauma, arm and leg fractures, possible broken ribs with multiple lacerations and contusions. Vitals are steady and stable. What have you got?"

The lady technician hesitated—glanced furtively at Sam—and then replied, "No respirations, no pulse. Let's get him outta here! I need a backboard—stat!" she shouted to the crew approaching them. Sam shivered violently, a lump forming in his throat as they extracted Dean from the back seat.

Using a resuscitator bag, the young woman began to fill Dean's lungs with air, while her partner began compressions. As they counted off the compressions and breaths, Sam felt an audible sob coming from somewhere deep inside.

"No, no," he whispered.

Sam felt his father's strong, sure grip on his shoulder.

"He's gonna make it, Sammy."

Sam turned to look at him through a haze of tears. There were two fat tears sauntering lazily down his father's cheeks. John's brow was twisted in a maze of grief and fear.

He wouldn't look Sam in the eye just then; perhaps he didn't want to see the pain his greed for revenge had brought upon his youngest. Instead, John sat silently, obviously hanging on every word coming from the two medics as they tried to save the life of his firstborn.

"Nothing yet?" the voice of the male medic snapped between them.

"No, nothing. Begin again!" the woman clipped, then yelled over her shoulder to one of the first responders to get the defibrillator ready. A few minutes later, CPR was stopped so she could check Dean's pulse again. "No—still no pulse. Let's try a dose of epinephrine and atropine."

Sam held his breath and watched as she filled and then jabbed the long needle straight into Dean's failing heart. She paused to check for some sign of life. "Okay, I've got ventricular fibrillations, give me the paddles," she called.

Buttons were rapidly flipped and Sam heard the high-pitched whine of the machine as it charged.

"Clear!" the EMT declared, pressing the rigid paddles to Dean's chest—giving him a visible jolt of electricity. His whole body jerked in response.

"Okay, check again," the man said.

Heartbreaking seconds ticked by. It seemed like an eternity as Sam waited for her response.

"Still erratic!" came the dreaded words. "Again!" she called loudly.

Sam's world began spinning out of control. From a distance, he could hear the technicians preparing to give his brother another shock and then Dean's body convulsing against the backboard. Sam heroically fought to remain conscious, needing to know his brother was going to be okay, but the emotional onslaught combined with his injuries was too much for his body to handle. The embrace of blessed darkness stole his agony away.

WUCWUCWUCWUCWUCWUCWUCWUC

John watched helplessly as Sam crumpled to the cold, wet earth just outside the driver's side door. Two of the first responders jumped toward him, stretching him out and blocking his face from Sam's view.

John was unable to see what was happening to Dean, either. He could only listen for progress on Dean and watch as the responders took Sam's vitals.

Thoughts, recriminations, and regret poured through his mind as the full impact of what was going on assaulted him. _How could this be happening,_ he silently prayed, _my boys have already been through so much. How did I allow this to happen? I tried so hard to keep them safe. Please, God, please let them be okay. Give Dean back. Take me instead. _

_Please… My brave, selfless Dean. Sam needs him, you see. Dean is all that keeps Sam from becoming just like me. My headstrong, honorable Sam needs his big brother—and so do I._ John opened his eyes, concentrating on the sounds around him. He heard the whining defibrillation machine as it charged for the fifth time and the familiar, "Clear!" as the medical personnel shocked Dean. John held his breath, praying to a God he'd never believed in.

"Rhythms are thready, but back to normal," came his answer.

_Thank you, _John whispered, ignoring the hot tears on his face.

"Still no breath sounds—let's get him intubated and loaded up," the technician ordered, already inserting tubes into Dean. John caught a glimpse of him as they lifted his gurney into the air. Dean's head was tightly bound with white gauze. He had, a growing circle of red on his forehead. Tubes protruded from his mouth and there was more than one IV leading into his arms.

John's heart sank at the sight. Dean looked so white, so still. And there was so much blood—how could anyone possibly survive that?

_This is my fault. Please, Son, hang on._

Tears stung John's eyes as he turned back to check on Sam, who was being lifted onto his own gurney.

"Vital signs good and strong on this one," came the answer to John's unspoken question. "Mild concussion and maybe some cracked bones—but he'll be just fine."

Consolation in small measure became John's as the firefighters began the long, arduous task of cutting him from the mangled Chevy.

TBC

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A/N: Much thanks to Mady Bay for her original beta work and gratitude in spades to Sodakey for taking on the enormous job of re-beta'ing the re-write.


	3. Chapter 3: Because It's Dean

Chapter 3: Because It's Dean

"…Can you hear me? Young man…can you hear me?" a far away voice called out to Sam's semi-consciousness. He heard another, more masculine voice reply, "I think he's starting to come around."

"Mmmmm…," Sam groaned as his eyes began to focus on the sights around him. White, lots and lots of white - where was he? The last thing he remembered was…something bad…pain…pain which he could still feel. There was more, though…a crash? Memory slammed into Sam for the second time that night. "Dean! Where's my brother," he yelled, panic stricken. The last thing he remembered was the paramedics working on his brother, trying to restart his heart.

"It's okay, young man, just try to relax. You're in the hospital and-" said the first voice which Sam could now see belonged to an older woman dressed in nurses' scrubs.

"My brother! Where is my brother?!" Sam heaved. "I have to see my brother, please…," he began, his eyes darting around the small room. The nurse smiled at him with something like sympathy as she continued to work busily around him.

"Please, Son," the second voice consoled, "We need for you to stay calm. I'm Dr. Bennett and I'll be your attending physician. I need to ask you some questions while I assess your condition.

Despite his hazy vision, Sam endeavored to look around him, still desperately seeking Dean. Pushing himself into a sitting position, he burst out, "Listen, Doctor, I really need to see my brother, please…I need to know he's alive!"

Sighing in resignation, knowing that an exam was futile until Sam became more cooperative, the doctor walked over to one of the curtains that separated the young man from the rest of the room. Smoothly drawing it back – he revealed Dean a few feet away on his own gurney. There was a blur of activity all around him as he was hooked up to a wide assortment of machines and IVs, which were being adjusted and monitored by various hospital staff.

Sam looked on as Dean's attending physician prepared to insert a chest tube to drain the collecting blood away from his lungs. Sam's breath caught in his throat; he couldn't believe that it was really his brother. Dean looked so lifeless and vulnerable. Definitely not his fearless, invulnerable big brother – the righter of all wrongs.

Unable to take his eyes off of the elder Winchester and afraid to use his voice, Sam just sat and stared with his mouth agape, raw emotion springing to his eyes as Dr. Bennett briefly explained, "They're trying to stabilize your brother's condition so they can get him into surgery. He has massive internal bleeding, a possible punctured lung and he isn't breathing on his own. That's about all I can tell you at this point. I'm sorry I don't have more extensive or better news. If he makes it through surgery, I'm sure that his doctor will update you on his prognosis."

_**If** he makes it through surgery? _Sam wondered as his brain focused on the "If" part of that sentence.

"He's a real fighter, that brother of yours, he obviously has a strong will to live and that makes all the difference in these situations. Most people with that kind of blood loss wouldn't have made it this far."

The doctor sighed softly. "I have worked the emergency room for nearly 20 years and I see it time and time again. Attitude and will to live can be the deciding factors between life and death. From what I can see, your brother must have plenty of both," the doctor said, hoping to ease Sam's mind.

"Now, about you…," Dr. Bennett initiated, "Let's start by lying back down on the bed here and letting me examine you. Good, that's just fine."

As his doctor began to probe and prod various body parts and tissues, Sam continued to try and sneak a peek at his ailing brother next to him. "Does this hurt?" the doctor asked. "Okay, good. What about this?"

Yelping sharply, Sam jerked his eyes to where the doctor had just pressed. "Yep, that's what I thought. Your knee is probably cracked, maybe even broken. We won't know for sure until we get some x-rays, but with all that swelling - I'd say it's a pretty sure thing that it is a hairline fracture."

"Now, can you tell me your name?" the doctor asked, shining a bright light into each of Sam's bloodshot eyes.

"Ssa…Sam," he croaked, trying to clear his dry throat.

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that, Sam, we can't allow any food or drink until your exam's complete and we know exactly what we're dealing with," the doctor informed him.

"Okay, Sam, now we're going to draw some blood for routine tests and then get you down to X-Ray. After that, if all goes well and there're no surprises, we can get you into a room and more comfortable," the doctor stated as he turned to walk away.

Sam tentatively stopped Dr. Bennett by placing his hand on the doctor's white-coated arm, asking, "What about my dad?"

"Hmmm, I'm not sure, Sam. Last I heard they were still trying to cut him out of the car. They had some difficulty because of the way his legs were pinned in. Tell you what, though, I'll go check and let you know before we take you to Radiology." The doctor smiled reassuringly at him once more.

"Thanks, Doc," Sam answered, nodding his gratitude as the doctor hurried away.

The younger Winchester turned his head back to Dean just in time to see them wheeling him out of the room. _Must be taking him to surgery now,_ Sam worriedly thought. "Please, Dean, just keep fighting," he whispered quietly under his breath. When Sam could no longer see his unconscious brother, he finally relaxed fully onto the cot and let out a long sigh. He knew this was going to be a long, drawn-out situation that would require buckets of patience. All emergency rooms and medical procedures seemed to be the same on this particular point.

After what seemed like several long minutes and several sighs later, the doctor glided back into Sam's cubicle and pronounced, "Okay, Sam, your blood results look good and its time to get you down to Radiology. Someone will be here shortly to take you there. I'll see you a little later to give you a full report on your condition."

"Hey, Doc, did you find out anything about my dad?" Sam questioned before the doctor had time to escape once again.

"Oh, right, I'm sorry. Well, they were just getting him out of the car and loaded into the ambulance a few minutes ago. He should be here real soon. Don't worry, I think he's going to be okay," informed Dr. Bennett.

_I wish they could say the same about Dean, _Sam's thoughts lamented, _instead of giving me some pitying speech about will to live. Oh, man, Dean. What's going on with you right now? Are you still fighting or…, _Sam couldn't finish that thought. Out loud he replied, "Thanks, Doc…for everything."

"No problem, Sam, I'll see you later."

Silently, as Sam was wheeled to Radiology, he began to pray, _Please God, be with Dean and keep him alive. Don't let the last thing he remembers be the demon's words or Dad and I fighting in the car. I just want the chance to tell him the things he needs to hear and the things I need to say..._

oooOOOooo

Mercifully, John was finally taken to the emergency room where doctors attended to this and nurses attended to that. Apparently, he was going to need careful observation due to his concussion as well as a few bones set in casts. The concussion was the main worry and they had all marveled at his alertness and good vitals. He seemed to be doing quite a bit better than what was expected, under the circumstances. They didn't know that he was running on pure adrenaline and will alone.

Once they administered the morphine into his IV, he no longer cared about much. The medicine sent a warm invitation through his veins that beckoned him to sleep. It was very difficult to keep his eyes open now and he was beginning to feel reasonably annoyed at all the questions and other disturbances which prevented him from sweet slumber. However, John stubbornly clung to consciousness despite the heavy-handed ways of the medicine, hoping to get some news about his boys. His boys needed him and that's all that mattered.

John was much calmer now then when they had first brought him in. Then, he'd been nearly frantic trying to get someone to update him on his sons' condition, ready to clock someone if they didn't stop long enough to listen to him. But everyone seemed more focused on getting John hooked up, poked, tested, and encased in plaster here and there. Finally, a kindly attending physician of about John's age - who apparently had worked on Sammy - came over and shared what he knew of John's sons. Clearly, the staff had become aware of the imminent back-lash that was building inside the near explosive man.

"You must be Mr. Anderson, Sam's father?" the doctor began.

_Okay, that must be another one of Sam and Dean's fake IDs, _John assumed.

"Uh, yeah, that'd be me. How_'s_ my boys?" John asked, nerves on edge.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Bennett and I was your son's attending physician. Well, Mr. Anderson-"

"Call me John, please," he inserted, feeling a little strange being called by a foreign name and knowing that his alias shared his given name.

"Well, John, your younger son is one lucky man. In fact, I would say that your family in general must've had a higher power watching over you tonight because most people don't survive such a tangle with a semi. Sam has a broken wrist, some bruised ribs, a mild concussion, a slight fracture to his knee and some minor cuts and abrasions. Naturally, we are going to keep him here for a few days to monitor his condition - to make sure there are no adverse effects from the head trauma or any other problems we might've missed. All in all, I'd say he'll be just fine in no time."

Nodding with relief, John asked, "What about my other son, Dean?"

The doctor hesitated, then said, "Honestly, John, I really can't say for certain. I wasn't his 'attending' and I only know that they had stabilized his condition well enough for him to be taken up to surgery a couple of hours ago. From what I could see at the time, he had some internal injuries and he was hooked up to a ventilator, which means he wasn't breathing on his own."

"Beyond that, you'll have to speak with his doctor when he comes out of surgery. I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful." Then, sparing a brief pat on the hunter's forearm, Dr. Bennett excused himself, saying, "It was nice meeting you, John. Try not to worry 'cause Sam's gonna be fine and your other son is in good hands. Now if you will excuse me I need to get back to my other patients."

"Thanks, Doc," John said, shaking the good doctor's outstretched hand before watching him disappear around flapping, loose curtains. John reached up with his free hand and rubbed his gritty, bloodshot eyes as he blew out the puff of air he had unknowingly held for so long. Once again he found himself wondering how this all turned out to be such a mess. He had nearly lost not one, but both of his sons tonight. And still, the demon got away. If only Sam had…he began-"Nope, don't go there, John," he reprimanded quietly, giving himself a good, hard mental shake.

Unbidden came the memory of Dean being lifted into the air, covered in blood, quiet and still as death with tubes all around while his baby brother lay pale and unconscious on the ground below him. For the first time since the accident happened, John began to doubt his priorities and question his words so coldly spoken to his youngest just before the lights and the broken glass.

Just then his nurse came breezing back into the cubicle. "Okay, ready to go for a ride?" she cheered as two more medical personnel followed in right behind her. "These nice fellows are going to take you up and get you settled into your room. From there, a ward nurse will take over your care. Good luck and I hope you get to feeling better soon," she called as he was transferred to a new bed and rolled away.

oooOOOooo

_Four hours, it's been exactly four hours since I last saw Dean… _Sam was beginning to feel very antsy, nerves taut and strained by the waiting. _What could possible be taking so long? Is four hours typical? Maybe it's good news that I haven't heard anything more…_

Before he could pose more questions to torture himself with, he noticed an increase of activity just outside the doorway of his room. _Looks like they're bringing someone in-_

"Dad!" Sudden relief overcame Sam at the sight of his father. He sat up in his bed and saw that his dad looked a little worse for the wear, but mostly okay.

"Sammy, Son, I'm glad to see you're okay," John exclaimed, just as surprised as Sam to realize they'd be sharing a room.

"Are you okay, Dad?" came Sam's tentative question, one eyebrow raised in wonder at the relieved look passing across his father's face. Maybe he'd misjudged his father.

"Yeah, just a little banged up is all...what about you? You look a lot better than when I last saw you," John waved off Sam's concern as the attendants got him settled into the bed next to his son's.

"I'm okay," Sam gestured to his bandages and shrugged. "Look, Dad…about Dean…"

Sam tried but his voice failed him as the painful words refused to come.

"Sam, your brother's gonna be okay – he's strong and he'll pull through this."

John interjected what he knew Sam needed to hear, what _he_ needed to hear.

This caused Sam to lift his gaze to meet his father's as he questioned, a frown of doubt on his face, "How can you be so sure…you weren't there in the emergency room…you didn't see…he was so…"

"I'm sure," John stated, his voice rough, "because this is _Dean_ we're talkin' about. It's Dean…," he trailed off as if this was explanation enough. He hoped to keep up the false perception that he and Sam had held so long that Dean was super-invincible. Hidden in his own mind, however, was the urgent thought that his elder son had to be okay simply because John Winchester could never forgive himself if he wasn't.

TBC

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a/n: Thanks again to Mady Bay for helping me to get this whipped into shape, grammatically and mechanically speaking.**


	4. Chapter 4: John's Wake Up Call

Chapter 4: John's Wake-Up Call

Time had ceased to exist for Dean Winchester. As his battered and bruised body lay on the cold surgical table with tubes coming out from every possible place, the surgeon and his medical staff worked quickly and expertly on his dying body.

Though Dean continued to defy all odds with every beat of his weakened heart, his vital signs told the story of just how tenuous his hold on this life was. The surgeon, Dr. Bob Graham, worked quickly to repair the damage that had been inflicted to Dean's heart and lungs.

After nearly six long hours of tedious, painstaking damage control, Dr. Graham was finally closing the open chest wound he'd been working through. The surgeon couldn't believe this young man was still alive - it was nothing short of a miracle. Despite knowing that his patient had been involved in a car accident, this kind of damage seemed suspiciously like something had tried to rip the young man's heart from his body - but that was just impossible.

Sure the punctured lung was from the broken ribs - but the arterial tears and damage to his aorta, not to mention the big gaping wound, seemed like something a little more. Still baffled, Dr. Graham placed the last suture and began preparing himself for the inevitable "talk" with the family.

After making sure he knew the names of the young man he had just operated on and his family members, Dr. Graham finally stood outside the correct hospital room. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Dr. Graham pushed open the door to the room where Dean's brother and father waited for news of his condition.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Graham," he introduced himself, noting their ragged and weary appearance.

"Doctor, how's Dean," the younger man asked, anxious concern mirrored in his face as well as his voice.

"Okay, well, there is no easy way to tell you this, but as I'm sure you already know, Dean has suffered some very severe injuries to the chest area. When he came into the emergency room, his body was already in severe hypovolemic shock due to massive blood loss. Also, his ultrasound indicated some arterial and aortic tearing which required surgical repair."

"He has a chest tube in place to drain away the extra air and blood from around his lungs. The chest tube will also help re inflate his collapsed lung that was punctured by some broken ribs. Due to Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome, he has been placed on mechanical ventilation until his lungs have a chance to heal."

The doctor looked first from one stunned face to the other before continuing, "Also, we have put him on antibiotics for infection prevention and to help ward off pneumonia, which is common with this type of injury. His body is still in shock, which is to be expected, so we have him on intravenous fluids and blood products to help build his blood volume back up."

"We are keeping him in a medically induced coma to keep him from fighting the ventilator, so don't expect any sign of response when you go in to see him. He does have a slight concussion, but at this point I feel it is the least of his problems. Amazingly, his ribs appear to be the only bones broken despite some severe bruising on his left shoulder and left hip area. Really, the next 24 hours will be critical in whether or not he pulls through this."

Both men sat frozen in dumbstruck shock and fear, until finally Sam managed to blink -sending a single tear sliding down the side of his face.

Sympathy pangs motivated Dr. Graham to continue, "I know that this sounds very overwhelming and I won't lie to you, Dean _is_ in very critical condition, but he seems to be a very strong, determined young man and he's fighting very hard. I have never seen anyone take this much abuse and survive past the emergency room, much less surgery. I find this encouraging considering that we now have corrective measures in place."

"We have him in the ICU ward and you may visit him if you like. Normally, we wouldn't allow more than one of you in at a time - but considering his severe condition and the fact that there are only the two of you, I'm going to allow you both to visit him as soon as you feel up to it. Do you have any questions at this point?"

Dean's father cleared his emotion clogged voice and said, "Um, not at this time, Doc. I think right now we just need to see him."

"Sure thing, Mr. Anderson, I'll send someone in right away," Dr. Graham assured as he rose and shook both men's hands and disappeared out the door.

No sooner than Dr. Graham had gone, Sam grieved, "Oh God, Dean…"

Soundless tears trailed one after another down Sam's cheeks and he couldn't bring himself to steal a look at his dad. Meanwhile, John just sat in muted disbelief, feeling like he'd just been kicked in the stomach. He could not wrap his mind around the surgeon's words. They made no sense; he couldn't be talking about _his_ son. This was _not_ happening. Before either man could recover himself, a couple of nurses and an attendant came in to help them into their wheel chairs.

Not having anything to contend with but a small cast on his wrist along with some gauze placed here and there and a walking cast (which looked much like a knee brace) immobilizing his leg, Sam was left waiting out in the hallway as they carefully maneuvered his father with his two large casts - one on his right arm and one on his right leg - into the wheelchair. The doctor that had worked on John was able to place the cast on his leg just below the gunshot wound so that it could be tended to as well. Funny that no one had asked about that - at least not _yet._

Once the ICU ward came into view, Sam could feel his stomach clench up in spasms of nervous terror - he wasn't sure he wanted to do this. Yes, he desperately wanted to see Dean, but he was also afraid of what was waiting behind the glass doors. Sam wondered if his father was feeling jittery, too.

John's heart was heavy from the stony embrace of dread and guilt. Guilt because this was most assuredly his fault, dread because he wasn't sure_ what_ to expect. Disbelief had wound tendrils of denial around his brain…he just couldn't accept the doctor's words. He frantically clung to the comforting belief this was just some big cosmic joke and that there was nothing to really worry about or feel guilty for.

A couple of minutes later, the two men breeched the transparent barrier separating them from Dean. Nothing could have possibly or adequately prepared either man for the sight that met their eyes. First Sam's and then John's heart plummeted to the floor and, in that same instant, the heartache sucked their breath away. Lying before them was not the Dean they knew and depended on. This Dean was barely recognizable. This Dean was white as a sheet, still and unanimated, frail and sickly.

He had tubes running from his mouth where the ventilator hissed and spewed air into and out of his lungs, there was a tube projecting from his side where the blood and air drained away from his insides, and from his arms sprouted several IV's which hung around him -some with clear liquids and some with blood. The air around him was filled with the hum of the blood pressure cuff as it intermittently gauged Dean's blood pressure and the beep of the cardiograph monitoring his heart. On his big toe was an oximeter for measuring his blood gases.

With a tiny squeak of the wheelchair, Sam's nurse pushed him to Dean's right side. John's nurse pushed him around the bed and up close to the other side of his son. Luckily, Dean's bed was low enough to the ground that neither man had to stand to peer into Dean's face.

Taking his older brother's chilled hand into his warm one, Sam looked into his brother's face through a fresh batch of unchecked tears. For a long moment, Sam just sat with the elder man's hand tightly grasped in his own and let the grief wrack through his entire body - a single, "Oh, Dean," breaking free from his trembling lips.

The mechanical whir, beep and whistle of the machines suddenly became lost among the broken sobs coming from John. Sam jerked his gaze up to his father's face, not trusting his ears' interpretation. There his father sat, his free hand covering his face as he wept openly at the sight of his son. "What have I done?" he cried aloud, "Dean, I'm so sorry. Please forgive me, please…"

John's wake-up call was finally too obvious to ignore. The sight before him shredded his conscience and wouldn't be denied any longer. This was Dean, his first-born, lying here dying - kept alive only by so many machines and medical interventions. Unfortunately for John, fate chose at that moment to replay memory clips of newborn Dean, toddler Dean and five year old Dean through his mind. Those big, trusting eyes looking up into his, a tiny little hand tugging on his arm and the all too fleeting toothy smiles of childish glee. Next came less happy images of green eyes brimming with hurt and abandonment, a fallen face full of disillusionment and then lastly, the mask of apathy and growing way too old at a very young age.

Dumb struck by his father's obvious grief, Sam could no longer look upon his dad or acknowledge his father's obvious agony. Instead, he turned back to Dean and concentrated his focus there. Astonishingly, Dean looked so young now. Why had Sam never noticed it before?

Despite his pallor and the dark bruising under his closed eyes, there was something so peaceful about the way his brother looked. Sometimes Sam forgot just how young Dean really was. The elder Winchester had always filled both the mother and father roles for Sam - he'd just taken it for granted that Dean was only 4 years older. Of course, the disguise of indifferent indignation that Dean had perfected to a T made him seem older than that of his 27 years.

Even now, he was just a kid really, certainly way too young to be on death's doorstep. Nausea and rage grappled inside Sam, vying for first place - Dean didn't _deserve_ this, he deserved to be happy with a family of his own - he deserved a home full of people who would return his fierce loyalty and love. Swallowing a big lump lodged painfully in his throat, Sam gingerly began smoothing Dean's hair back from his forehead, being careful to avoid the big, puffy bandage on his forehead.

How many times had Dean done something very similar to this all those many times Sam had been sick with a childhood illness? _You would make a great father to some lucky kids some day, big brother._ The shocking realization came to Sam with such stunning clarity that he had to blink a few times in wonder. But, why so shocking? Sam had observed how well Dean seemed to relate to children over the course of the last year, not to mention how he had been a wonderful replacement father figure for Sam. Maybe it should be more of a shock that Sam had never seen it before - so much for being psychic wonder boy.

"Hey, Dean, it's Sam - Sammy," he corrected, continuing to tenderly stroke his sibling's cool and clammy face, "and I want you to listen to me. You're going to be just fine… and don't worry about anything besides getting better. Dad and I are here and we need you to be well. Just, please get better, okay? I'm not leaving you; I'll be right here watching your back like you've always done for me." With a hiccup of regret he continued, "Listen, Dean, when you get better we're going to have to talk. I've got some things to say that I think you really need to hear."

"Yeah, I know how much you hate chick-flick moments," Sam half chuckled, "but it's something that we need to do. Dean, you're the best big brother I could've ever hoped for…and I need you to know that I understand now just how much I've taken it for granted that you'll always be there for me. I never realized before that all of this…stuff…has hurt you just as deeply as it hurt me. I'm sorry that I never took the time to notice it and that I selfishly ignored the most important constant in my life. Dean, if you can hear me, you've got to get better so you can kick my butt for being such a complete jerk."

With a quivering lip but no other sign of his initial breakdown, John leaned near his son and placed his big, work-roughened hand on a free spot near Dean's wrist, giving it a quick squeeze.

Inspired by his youngest son's professions, he began, "Son, you listen to your brother and get better. I'm countin' on it. You have to do this for me, Son. Your brother needs you - heck, Dean; I need for you to be okay. Do you hear me? _I_ need to know that you're gonna be okay. I'm a selfish SOB and I expect you to do this for us."

Sighing softly and flicking a single tear quickly away, John closed his eyes and briefly ducked his head before lifting it once again with as tender a smile as Sam had ever seen on his face.

"You know, I can still remember the day you were born. It was one of the three happiest moments in my life - the other two being the day your mom agreed to marry me and," he pointedly looked into Sam's hesitant eyes before continuing, "the other was the day your baby brother was born."

"Shocking, I know, but I once knew the meaning of family and where it should rank in a person's list of priorities. If you'd told me that I would've failed so miserably as a father back then, I'd have met that statement with a punch in the pie hole - but when your mom died…I just kinda lost myself and you two boys along with me in my grief. I think this is the first time since then that I have managed to resurface from that black, dark hole. I can only hope you can forgive me," he lamented, this last point being meant for Sam as well as Dean.

John paused, searching Sam's ravaged face for some sign of forgiveness. For what seemed like a very long, uncomfortable moment, Sam sat with a 'deer in the headlights' expression on his face.

Voice cracking slightly, Sam responded, "Dad, I…I don't know what to say…"

"It's okay, Son, I understand," John remorsefully broke eye contact, "I know I'm asking a lot…"

"No, Dad, I mean…," Sam broke in, "I…we…understand. Really, we do."

Feeling at a loss by the unconditional support of his baby son, John could only sit bound by his wheelchair and nod his relief.

Mustering up a little courage, he whispered, "Thanks, Son - I never meant…for this, any of it, to happen. I'm one lucky man to have two great boys like you two."

Then John flashed a brief smile and let the unspoken words between them echo in his eyes and expressions instead.

"Sam, did I ever tell you about your brother's first few breaths of life? After a long, difficult labor he was finally delivered…they had to use those salad tongs on 'im. Always was stubborn. Your mom was just so beat…but the minute they placed him into her arms, all of her fatigue just seemed to fall away. They just sat and looked into each other's eyes like they were old friends."

"Naturally, all the nurses cooed and fussed over what a beautiful baby he was. Dean was the prettiest baby I've ever seen in all my life. His eyes were so big and searching…and he was a really good baby. Never did cry much at all. "

Sam smiled - touched by his father's memories and his eyes urged John on.

"Now, you," he smirked, "you were the liveliest baby ever born. Cute as a bug in a rug in much the same way as a lost little puppy, but very moody. Came out of your mom ready to take on the world, too. You were always one step ahead of yourself. When your body refused to keep up with your mind, you'd work up one heck of a tantrum and begin wailing at the top of your lungs. Of course, your mother always had a talent for calming you down just as your brother always had a talent for making you laugh."

"You were also somethin' of a little Houdini, too. Your brother and I couldn't seem to keep you pinned up for very long no matter how hard we tried. But, Dean…he had an unending supply of patience with you. He never lost his temper or gave up tryin' to teach you things."

Wistfully, John continued, "I always knew that you and your brother had somethin' special between the two of you. Right from the start Dean appointed himself as your personal bodyguard and you looked to him for guidance and directions."

John smirked at Sam, and then said, "It used to make me so angry every time I gave you an order and you automatically looked to Dean for his approval before acknowledging it."

John leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, then asked, "Did you know that Dean slept with you in your crib every single night? Of course, this was after your mom'd died and I guess I should've expected it since Dean became your main caretaker."

Shaking himself from his reverie, he met Sam's eyes and murmured, "Always good boys, though, couldn't have asked for better."

Both men shared another quick smile and then fell back into silent repose, both gazes falling down onto the one that had always held them together through the best and worst life had thrown them. In that solemn passage of time, two men heretofore joined only by blood and the love of the one lying in the space between them began to bond in the wake of grief, confession, and mutual understanding.

Not wanting to break the fledgling connection forming between them, neither one dared to say more or to break contact with their family protector. Instead, they sat huddled close to their Dean and alternated between silent prayers to God and mentally trying to will the good soldier back to full health.

As the minutes ticked by, John regarded his two sons before him. Sam had drifted off about a half hour earlier, his head still perched near Dean's shoulder and his long, slender fingers still wrapped around his brother's limp, open hand. Somehow Dean had managed to make it through the night and the doctors and nurses had generously allowed Sam and John to come back to for a visit once they had both agreed to eat some breakfast. Just a little after eleven now, John fully expected that Dean's doctors would come in shortly and shoo them back to their room while they evaluated young man's condition once again and ran even more tests.

Poor Dean was beginning to resemble a pincushion from all the blood tests and IVs. For the first time since his boy had come out of surgery, John began to allow a warm wisp of hope to begin stirring deep down inside, mixing hesitantly with the churning worry and fear. The doctor had said that the next 24 hours would be critical and, so far, Dean had managed to hold his own for about 12 of those 24 hours.

John soon began to feel his own eyelids grow heavy as he, too, began to nod toward a light dream state. As always, though, the dreams would fall away to reveal nightmares from before, when the demon had dwelled in his body keeping him captive in his own skin and, as always, he would relive those horrible minutes over and over again.

In his mind's eye, he saw the stunned surprise on Dean's face as the demon gave John's son what he needed the most - his father's approval. Then, Dean's face would become tight with suspicion as the realization that his dad _wouldn't_ be proud of him, and it stripped away his confidence.

Following this would be the screams of agony being ripped from his son's throat as the demon tore his flesh and squeezed his heart dry of all the blood. The last image to unfold would be the desperate pleas of his weakened son just before Dean's head would sag forward in unconsciousness.

As sleep's grasp drew John more deeply in, the nightmare would bend reality into his worst fears until he found himself alone in a darkened cemetery kneeling before his elder son's grave - his youngest son finally done with him for good and leaving nothing behind him but the heated words spoken in anger telling John what he already knew - this was his fault.

Just then, John's nightmarish world was jerked out from under him as he felt a large hand clamp down on his shoulder. Nearly falling face first from his wheelchair, John quickly looked up into the concerned face of one of Dean's many doctors. "You okay?" came the expected question.

Regaining his composure, John cleared his throat as hot embarrassment threatened to redden his face, "Umm, yeah. You must have caught me snoozing on the job."

Chuckling a little at that the doctor responded, "Sorry about that, John, I didn't mean to scare you. You look like you could use some rest, though. Tell you what; let's get you and Sam back to your room while I take a look at your son here. Maybe after a long nap and some hot lunch you boys can come back down and check in on Dean a little later. I promise we'll take good care of him, okay?"

"Only on one condition," Sam interrupted from behind the aging doctor, still wiping the sleep from his eyes.

"And that would be?" the doctor's question came as he raised one speculative eyebrow.

"Well, I think we'd appreciate it if you could give us an update as soon as you are done."

This came with a small hint of pleading mixed with a stifled half-yawn.

"Sure thing, young man."

The doctor's facial expression and demeanor softened at Sam's worried manner. Using one finger to push his eyeglasses back into place, he remarked, "But right now I want the two of you back upstairs resting. Both of you have been spending way too much of your energy down here instead of healing your own bodies. If Dean gets through this, he's going to need both of you to be strong and healthy for him. If his condition changes one iota, I promise you'll be the first to know. So scoot along now and rest."

Reassured that the doctor would be good to his word, Sam and John allowed themselves to be wheeled back up to their own waiting beds. Once settled back in, the silence between them loomed thick and repressive. Sam nervously chewed at the tip of a hangnail as he was so accustomed to doing when feeling uncertain or uncomfortable.

He glanced furtively out of the corner of his eye at his dad, his thoughts still jumbled and upturned at the startling turn of events last night at Dean's bedside. Never, ever, had he heard his dad speak of Dean or his own birth. All things before his mom's death had been cataloged and stored - inaccessible to both boys. _Wow, last night, _he thought to himself, _Dad really opened up for a few seconds. He must be really scared to allow himself to break down and share himself like that. Talk about your 180's - I never thought I'd see thet day. I wonder if he regrets saying those things to me. What am I saying, he's Dad, and of course he does - he'll never change._

"Listen, Sam…"

_Uh-oh, _Sam thought_, here it comes - he's going to take it all back and slam the door shut once again._

"…about last night…I'm sorry son, the things I said…well, you know," John stumbled, having trouble getting the words out, "all of those things I told you should've been said years ago."

_Yeah sure, Dad, go ahead and cop out on us - why Dean has so much faith in you I'll never…wait, hold up, what? _Sam did a double take. "You…mean," Sam stammered, "you…_don't_ regret having that conversation?"

"No, Son, this is stuff I should've shared with you years ago. I'm just so sorry that it took almost losing my sons to realize it. I mean, Dean…he could've died…could still die...I just wanted you to know I'm not completely stone-hearted."

John smiled sadly, and said, "I can't change the past, I wish I could, but I can't and I don't know if I can change now after years of neglecting that part of myself, but I'm…aware…of how much you two boys mean to me. I'll never allow "the job" to come before my sons again."

"Huh," Sam muttered below his breath, his eyes focused on his preoccupied hands resting in his lap. "You know, Dad, Dean is _really_ going to hate this touchy-feely stuff, but I think he needs to hear this coming from you and not second-handed from me."

"Uh, yeah, I guess he probably does," John quietly agreed, not able to meet Sam's expectant gaze.

"I mean… the things the demon said to him…I think he believes it. The way his face just froze…he looked like someone had just stripped his soul bare for the entire world to see. What was it the demon said…that we don't need him like he needs us...I think that was it.

After John silently let the remarks hang in the air between them, Sam continued, "And I believe he said that your fights with me were more concern then was ever shown to him. Do you really think Dean believes that - that we don't need him?" Sam looked back to his dad now, searching for some comfort from the older man, a frown causing Sam's face to wrinkle and twitch.

Another long pause stretched between them as John tried to collect his thoughts, his memories of the scene Sam referred to. What John really wanted to do was blow it off and make some neat and tidy joke about Dean's ego and sweep it back under the rug where it couldn't pick at his conscience.

Finally, he allowed himself to speak, saying, "I don't know, Sam. I don't think anyone is ever really sure of what is going on in Dean's mind. Dean has always been…complex."

"When your brother was small," John related, "he was always very sensitive to the emotions and feelings of others around him. Particularly if it involved him. His feelings were always easily hurt and his heart was soft…much like your mother's…but…after your mom, he just kind of locked that part of himself away. I blame myself for that, I encouraged it. Told myself I was doing it for him, but really I did it because it made it easier to deal with the situation we found ourselves in."

Sam mulled this over for while. He tried to take in everything he knew about his older brother and everything his father had just revealed about Dean the child and tried to solve the riddle that was his macho, quick-witted brother. Over the past year, Sam had gotten to see glimpses into Dean's heart and had been surprised at what he'd seen. Seeing Dean through the eyes of an adult was different from his perspective of Dean from when they were kids. His brother, he discovered, had more layers than a Texan at the North Pole.

That Dean had allowed these glimpses had been the most surprising thing. Dean, who was a self professed chick-flick-phobic, had been the one to open up to his brother and tell him his deepest fears about losing his family. It'd been Dean who'd told Sam more than once how much he needed him in his life. In Salvation, Dean had nearly broken down during their confrontation after their failed attempt at killing the demon.

During that brief outpouring of raw emotion, Sam had witnessed fear and need in his brother's eyes…and something more…he couldn't quite put his finger on it. But the fear and need was definitely there. Fear of being left alone, fear of losing those closest to him and the need to be needed and loved by his brother and his father.

Dad was right, Dean was complex. Funny he had never realized it before. Sam knew he owed his brother a lot more credit than he had given him up until now. Thinking back to how frighteningly frail Dean had looked in his bed on the ICU ward threatened to break Sam's heart anew.

Sam became suddenly aware of just how little he did know his big brother. He also became very afraid that he'd never get that chance. One thing Sam knew for certain, he was completely resolved to getting to know who his brother really was whether Dean liked it or not. If he lives…that is.

"Dad," Sam whispered, small hitches tripping up the words, "he has to be okay...he has to know that the demon lied…he can't die believing those things. I need the chance to tell him…that…I…," Sam trailed off unable to express himself to his father of all people.

Before John could answer, the kind doctor from before poked his head around the corner and joked, "Ah, I see you two are still awake - against doctor's orders I might add."

Then, seeing the serious, desperate expression lining Sam's face, the doctor came fully into the room and rested a calming hand on Sam's arm.

"Well, Sam, I remember having promised a certain young man that I'd report to him first thing after my exam of his brother," the doctor continued more soberly, gently. "I'm going to shoot straight with you because I know I'd want that courtesy given to me in this situation."

The doctor looked Sam square in the eyes as he explained, "While Dean is nowhere close to being out of the woods yet, he is definitely not getting any worse. We're very confident that we've quelled any internal bleeding he may've had and his vital signs have improved slightly. His body is no longer in shock and we are taking him off the blood transfusions."

"We are going to continue with the antibiotics and he'll probably be on the ventilator for another five to six days at minimum. This will give his lungs a chance to heal and perhaps he can breathe on his own after that. We _are_ still watching him closely for signs of infection and any bleeders we might have missed. While his body is very weak right now, he does have a fighting chance as long as we can keep the blood loss at bay and no further complications come up."

Sighing heavily, the physician addressed John and said, "Providing he gets over the worst of this, however, he's going to need respiratory therapy and lots of rest. This isn't going to be a quick recovery with a short bout of doctor's visits. He is a very sick man right now and it's going to take his body a very long time to recover."

"In the meantime, I strongly suggest that you all try to build your own bodies back up. He's going to need a lot of care and support from you. So, please, I can't stress it enough - get some rest and take care of yourselves. If there is anything I can do to help, don't hesitate to ask me. Now, I must get back to work, but before I go, do you have any further questions?"

"Uh, yeah," Sam heard himself ask, "what about brain damage? 'Cause, I know he stopped breathing for quite a while at the scene. Plus, I've had a little EMT training and I know that severe chest injuries can sometimes cause brain damage."

"While it is a possibility," the doctor began, fiddling with something in his pocket, "we won't really know anything for sure until he regains consciousness. For the short term, we just want to make sure that he makes it that far and then deal with whatever repercussions he's suffered from the accident when we know a little more. Okay?"

Sam gave a short, double nod of his head indicating he understood, but didn't look up from his nervously working fingers.

"All right, then, I'll check in on him again later and we'll all just take this one step at time."

The doctor shook both men's hands and then ducked out the open door, his mind already set on his next patient.

A new set of worries occupying his mind, John stared out the open window next to his bed while Sam released another long, heavy sigh before leaning his head back on his pillow and lifting his eyes up to the ceiling. Neither one felt like talking much just then, and so there they sat in morose contemplation until they both fitfully drifted off to sweet slumber - unable to fight their own body's desire for a much needed afternoon nap.

TBC

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a/n: Wow, I am completely flattered by all the kind reviews. Thanks so much and sorry if I didn't get back to you personally, real life keeps interrupting me.**

**Thanks to Mady Bay for beta'ing this chapter for me. I need all the help I can get.**


	5. Chapter 5: Dreams Can Be Funny Like That

Chapter 5: Dreams Are Funny Like That

"Am I worth saving?" A familiar, but mournful voice drifted into Sam's dreams like a hushed whisper.

"Dean?" Sam wrenched his eyes fully open, wide with surprise. "Is that you?" Sam asked, the question turning his voice into a mere squeak. Sam raised his hand to shield his eyes from the painfully, bright light as he scanned the area for the source of his sibling's voice.

"Am I worth saving, Sammy?" Dean's plaintive cry echoed once again.

"Dean, where are you? I can't see you," Sam questioned, all the while searching for his big brother. Finally the light began to dim somewhat and Sam's surroundings began to reveal itself - much like a stage curtain being drawn back. Sam realized that the bright, warm light was coming from the soothing, yellow sun bearing down from above.

Confusion wrinkled his brow as he took in the tall, swaying trees circling all around him. He was standing near a body of running water and he could hear the hard, polished stones crunching beneath his feet as he walked forward. He hoped to find Dean close by. It dawned on Sam that this place was one of their favorite childhood refuges.

Blinking hard, not believing what his eyes were showing him, Sam continued to study the scene laid out before him. Yep, it was the boys' favorite camping site, exactly as he remembered it. Secluded by the densely wooded area surrounding the small creek, not many people knew that this place existed. It was absolutely perfect for taking a breather or, perhaps in Dean's case, getting to first base with your girlfriend of the moment. Neither man had been back to this spot since their early teens.

Sam and Dean had spent many a night camping at this very spot after their dad had unceremoniously dumped them on Bobby for the umpteenth time. The Nevada landscape never seemed to fail at soothing their souls and relieving their constant unrest. It was quiet here, serene even.

The gentle bubbling and gurgling of the swirling stream eased their tension and calmed their nerves. The buzzing dragonflies would flit here and there around them as a gentle breeze caressed their skin. Birds cheerfully called to each other from high above in the rustling, dancing trees. Every now and then, you could make out the quick splash of a small fish as it flipped playfully out of the water and back in again.

At night, there would be a cacophony of various species of frogs and insects, broken only by the solemn screech of a nearby owl. Yes, those were good times. Peaceful times. Sam missed them intensely.

But, how had he gotten here and where was Dean? Sam vainly tried to remember how he came to be here and just where exactly he had been before this. Breaking just under the surface was a growing apprehension, threatening to well up and drown out his joyful, childhood memories. Where _was_ Dean? He was sure it had been Dean calling to him a moment ago.

Then, as he was about to give up on finding his older sibling, Sam saw a shadowed figure standing near the water's edge. Dean. Moving closer to his brother, Sam once again noted the queasy feeling inside that was warning him that things were not as they appeared.

"Dean? What's goin' on, man?" Sam wanted to know.

As Dean turned to face his baby brother, doleful green eyes captured Sam's hesitant stormy-sea colored ones. So much sorrow lined his brother's face that he was tempted to look away; it hurt to see him like that. Never had his brother looked so lost and uncertain. It left Sam trembling with his own doubt and fear. Dean was his rock, after all.

"Am I worth saving, Sammy?" Dean's baleful question came for the third time. Sam could see Dean's countenance was twisted by visceral need. Need for an answer. Need for a justification. The emotion radiating off of him was almost palatable.

Suddenly Sam understood what his brother was really asking and it scared him to think about the implications of that question. Why would his tough, self-assured brother be asking him such a thing? Then it came rushing back to him, all of it. The demon, the crash, Dean on life support - the whole horrifying ordeal lambasted Sam, leaving him winded.

Faltering for only a second, Sam quickly answered, "Of course you are, Dean. Why would you ask me that? You're my brother, man…and I would do anything for you."

"But, am I _worth_ saving?" Dean insisted, his face ravaged with self-doubt. As Dean's eyes bore into Sam's, the landscape shifted around them and then morphed into a completely different, less welcoming location.

Sam found himself and his brother on top of a barren, rocky cliff with dangerous winds blasting all around them. Dean was standing near a sharp, steep drop-off, appearing for all the world not to care about how close he was to the edge. Sam's clothes and hair whipped violently in the gusting wind as he bunched his muscles in tension - ready to act at a moment's notice. Yet, he remained stock-still. He was afraid to spook his brother any further.

"Dean," Sam consoled, "please, just step toward me very _carefully_." Sam's eyes glanced down at the small pebbles that were already skittering out from beneath Dean's boots. Locking onto his brother's deep, murky eyes once again, Sam prayed that his brother would listen to reason.

"You don't need me," Dean ground out, his voice harsh and forlorn. "Dad doesn't need me, either…I don't think anyone does."

"What are you talking about, Dean? You _know_ we do." Sam's face was a study of disbelief at his brother's words. Brow furrowed and eyes squinted in frustration, Sam stated, "We have always depended on you, man. You know that."

Abruptly Dean's tone became angry and his face reflected a deep, long-repressed pain.

"No, Sam, you may _depend_ on me - but you don't _need_ me. Not _anymore_. Neither does Dad, for that matter. That is why you both _left_ me." Dean turned his back on his brother, his shoes sending more rocks free falling toward the ravine down below.

Sam's face contorted with his own anger as he spat out, "Is that what you think, Dean? Is that _really _what this is all about? Come, on, man. I thought we had settled this. You know that is _not_ how it was. You know why I left."

Sam stopped, knowing this probably wasn't the best way to reach Dean at the moment. So, he tried a different approach.

"Okay, Dean. Maybe you're right, but not in the way you're thinking. I did leave, but not because I didn't need you anymore. You know how it was with Dad - I had to get out, I couldn't take it anymore."

"More than that, I just couldn't hang around waiting to watch you die in one of his stupid hunting trips. Between fighting with Dad and you constantly jumping in between me and danger, it had become too much. I wanted - no - _needed_ to get out."

Words failing him, Sam ran a slender hand through his shaggy, brown hair. He knew he had to be very careful not to push Dean the wrong way. As he mulled over his options, he began wondering how this was this even possible. The last thing Sam could remember was staring at the ceiling from his hospital bed trying to decide which was worse, dead Dean or brain damaged Dean.

He had just about decided that a dead Dean was the worst possible scenario, at least for him, when he must have dozed off. So, maybe this was just a dream and nothing more. Oddly enough, Sam didn't really buy_ that_ story. It didn't _feel_ like a normal dream, it felt more like one of _those_ dreams - only slightly different. He could sense Dean's essence as if he was in Dean's head. He could _feel_ Dean's emotions and thoughts. Was it possible that his big brother had somehow pulled Sam into _his_ mind?

Okay, so, maybe this wasn't a dream, but rather Dean's subconscious trying to communicate with his baby brother. Sam could feel his brother's desperation, his yearning for a reason for why he shouldn't jump off that cliff. With trepidation, Sam hypothesized that right now, this very moment, could be the deciding factor in whether his brother lived or died. Dean was looking for a reason to continue fighting, a reason to live, and Sam intended to make sure he got one.

Sam had been preparing for something like this ever since that day Dean was electrocuted and then subsequently healed. He knew that his brother had become more introspective and somewhat despondent. Very un-Dean-like. He had tried to convince his brother that the man who died in his place would've died anyway for someone else, but it didn't seem to help.

Dean was willing to sacrifice himself, but not willing that anyone sacrifice themselves for him. Now, with the impact of the demon's words weighing on his brother's mind as well, Sam feared the worst. He needed to convince Dean that he was worth saving, that he was worthy of living.

"Dean, look at me," Sam implored. Not responding, Dean continued to stand with his shoulders slumped in defeat, scouring the monotone landscape with his squinted eyes for something unseen. "Dean, look at me, _please_," Sam begged, panic tightly constricting his throat.

Thankfully, this seemed to have gotten through to his brother. Dean slowly turned back toward his little brother, his lifeline. His eyes cast downward and his body vibrating with reservations, Dean refused to look at Sam. He was afraid to - but Dean was never afraid. Not like this. This was something new and unwanted. _Please, Sam, help me,_ the words ran through his mind uninvited.

"I _do_ need you, Dad needs you…all of those people out there experiencing something supernatural need you. Just think of all the lives you have saved…you have done a lot of good in this world, Dean…and I admire you for that. You can't just give up, man. People _still_ need you."

"Besides, who's going to be around to keep me and Dad in line? To keep us from killin' each other. Who's going to be there to save my butt the next time some freak-show decides to strangle me?"

Sam flashed a dimpled grin at that last part. It had become some kind of an in-joke between them.

Sam paused, knowing this next part had to be said, but knowing it was going to hurt to reveal what he held so closely inside. Staring off into the distance, he began, "I'm so sorry that I hurt you when I left."

Sam hung his head in shame as he continued. "I was _wrong_ not to keep in touch. You know…I wanted to call so many times, but…I was afraid that if I did, all of my resolve to stay away would just crumble. And, Dad, well…I really think he just wanted to protect you. I think he knew that if he left you, you would hook back up with me."

Having Dean's full attention now, Sam wanted to make sure his brother completely understood this next part. He boldly made direct eye contact and let the anguish he found there wash over him unflinchingly.

"But, Dean, man, you _have_ to know that I'll never make that mistake again - _ever_. You have shown me what is important in this life…and now…well, I guess you're just stuck with me."

Eyebrows arched high, he pledged, "Even if I did get the chance to go back to school - it would never be like before. I want my big brother around…so please, don't turn your back on me - not after all we've been through. I _need_ you, Dean, I need you to stay here and be my big brother, please," Sam ended on a whine, his voice shrill to his own ears.

Hazel pools of doubt met Sam's pleading stare, wetness threatening to spill over.

"But, Sam," Dean's voice cracked, broken by strangling emotions, "I'm so _tired_. I am just so tired…and I want to _rest_. I don't _want_ to fight anymore."

Quietly, the tears came and his chin quivered with one last effort to regain control. Dean inhaled quickly and dashed at the hot tears trickling down his cheeks, not wanting his brother to see them.

Sam, feeling his own eyes beginning to fill, reached an arm toward his brother. With warmth and compassion, he said, "I know, Dean, I know you are, but I still need my brother to stick around. Don't you understand? Your role in my life _isn't_ complete…and…I don't want to do this," he said, gesturing in the air, "without you. Please, fight this for _me_."

Time seemed to stand still as Sam waited for his brother's response. He hoped with all his heart that his words were enough to bring his brother away from that unfortunate ledge. The wind, once howling fiercely around them, came to a sudden stop. The menacing, jagged cliff was replaced by the lush, green trees and the flowing creek once more. Sam continued to watch Dean, holding his breath.

Right before his eyes, Dean's wounds began to materialize. Blood poured down the side of Dean's head as more blood sprung up where his heart was beating strongly, spreading its dark pattern across his shirt.

Instinctively knowing what would come next, Sam rushed to his brother's side just in time to catch him in his arms and tenderly lower him to the ground, where the smooth, water-worn rocks waited. Holding his brother tight, Sam sought Dean's face for answers of his own.

Dean peered up at Sam as he clung to his baby brother's supporting arms, the full force of the pain transforming his face. "It _hurts_ so bad, Sammy," he whimpered, "…and I'm so sleepy…so tired…"

"I know, Dean. I'm sorry you hurt, but _please_ don't give up," Sam urged again.

"I don't wanna hurt anymore. Please, Sam, just make it _stop_," Dean begged, silent tears slipping unnoticed down his face.

Not knowing if his brother was referring to the physical pain, the emotional/mental pain or all of it, Sam's embrace tightened around him. His heart quickened at the sight of his brother being reduced to tears. Never had he seen adult Dean show this kind of emotion and he knew the pain must be unbearable to produce such a naked reaction. Sam vowed to be Dean's comforter as he had always been Sam's.

He crooned, "Its okay, Dean, I'm going to take care of _you_ now. Try to relax and concentrate on me, on my voice. Take deep, slow breaths and imagine yourself releasing the pain with each 'out' breath."

"Just don't leave me, okay?" Dean beseeched, finally giving words to his greatest fear. Grimacing once more, he gasped out, "Don't you…leave me alone…it's cold and dark here…just…_please_…stay with me."

Sam noticed that it did, indeed, look as if night was falling – inking out the surrounding details about them and sucking the warmth from the air.

"Sure thing, big brother," Sam murmured back, "Now, close your eyes and breathe with me, Dean. Focus on my voice and push through the pain. Let go of everything else and just _hear _me. Everything's going to be okay and when you wake up - I'll be waiting right here for you."

That seemed to satisfy him by some degree and Dean allowed his brother to fully bear his dead weight as he let go of his fear and his pain. For the first time in his 27 years, Dean gave his kid brother his consent to take care of him for once. Sam didn't have to wait much longer before his sibling's breathing evened out, the struggle against the pain giving way, and Dean let the healing rest his body so badly needed steal him away.

Sam was left holding nothing but air as his brother faded from his arms, leaving him alone once more. His dreams became his own. Knowing in his gut that Dean was going to be okay, Sam relaxed himself and allowed a deep, sleep-state to lullaby him into happy childhood memories of years gone by.

TBC

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A/N: Thanks to each and every one of you who have stuck with this story and sent me your encouragement. It wouldn't be worth it without someone to read and review. So thanks.**

**Special thanks to Mady Bay and Caroline for beta reading it for me. I appreciate it very much.**


	6. Chapter 6: Calling Missouri

Chapter 6: Calling Missouri

Waking up slowly, Sam started to stretch his lanky body to its fullest potential – only to find the movement restricted by an IV line. _Oh, yeah, forgot about that, _he found himself thinking. His sleep had been so deep and refreshing that he'd forgotten about where he was. Feeling much better, both mentally and physically, he struggled to sit up while rubbing the last bit of sleep from his eyes.

Looking around his small room, he noticed his dad seated in a wheelchair next to the window, curtains drawn back. Clearly, there was something wrong with John. His body language was all wrong - shoulders slumped, head cradled between his unsteady hands and heavy sighs slipping past his drawn lips.

"Dad? What's wrong?" Sam asked, tensing and becoming wary.

His dad's head jerked up at the first sound of his voice, obviously startled from a burden of oppressive consternation. Quickly regaining his composure, John plastered on what he hoped was a reassuring smile and moved his wheelchair so that he was fully facing his son. "Hey, how are you feeling? That was some nap, nearly three hours long."

"Actually, I feel pretty good, considering…" Sam paused and then pursued his earlier question with, "Didn't you get any sleep? You look awful."

John seemed reluctant to answer, but conceded, saying, "Well, I did try for a little while, but after about an hour I woke up. All I could think about was your brother, so I went down to check on him instead."

"And…how was he?" Sam pressed.

Finally losing the battle with keeping up a good front, John let the smile fall away as his voice shook a little with his reply.

"Uh, well, he…_seemed_ to be doing about the same, but…" John paused to clear his throat, "then… without warning…he bottomed out and his heartbeat became erratic. They immediately wheeled me back up here and told me that they'd send someone up to talk to me as soon as they had any news. That was nearly two hours ago. Someone should've been up by now. I can't take much more of this waiting, Sam, I just _can't_."

Instantly alert, Sam swallowed and blinked before saying, "Why didn't you wake me up, Dad? Dean could be dying…and…I wouldn't get to be with him…"

Sam stopped, not able to finish the sentence.

"Well, Sammy, there really wasn't anything more you could do and you needed the rest. I would've woken you up if I'd thought there was anything to tell."

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wincing as he continued, "I didn't see any point in both of us sitting here going out of our minds with worry. I've pressed that friggin' button so many times now, my thumb's numb. All I get is the same freakin' response – something to the tune of 'someone will come and speak with you shortly'."

Licking his parched lips, Sam tried to be calm and think positive. "If Dean was…uh…if he had…"

Sam stopped again, taking a deep breath before continuing, saying, "If anything had happened to him, I'm sure they would've told us something by now. Maybe they're still working on him, you know, running some more tests and crap like that."

"Yeah, you're probably right. That's probably it," John mumbled, trying to dredge up a scrape of hope from the bottom of his soul. "Doctors do love tests…"

Lost in their reflections, each man sat going through their familiar habits. As John kneaded the back of his neck, Sam sat chewing his fingernail – which was nearly a nub at this point. The younger man concentrated on trying to recall each vivid detail of his dream with Dean as a distractive measure. Even now, he refused to believe it was _just_ a dream. It couldn't have been – Sam had just _known_ that he was in Dean's mind and that his brother was_ going_ to be okay.

He wondered if maybe he should share the experience with his father. After all, it could've been that _exact_ moment – the moment Dean's heart had stopped – that Sam and his brother had been out on that ledge. He'd known intuitively that Dean's life depended on his every word, his every gesture. But why were the doctors taking so long to update them? It'd been_ two_ hours, already. _Something_ was up.

As his nervous eyes contemplated the downy blanket covering his legs, Sam spoke what was on his mind.

"Hey…Dad? I…uh…had a really strange dream about Dean while I was sleeping."

He waited for John to respond, feeling a little peculiar about explaining what he thought had happened.

"Yeah?" John responded, instantly attuned. "Was it a dream or a vision of some kind?"

John provided the encouragement Sam had needed.

"Well, honestly, I'm not sure. You see, I _think _I was in Dean's _head_. You, know, his…uh…subconscious," Sam answered, feeling a little flustered. He was highly unsure of how his dad would react to that little revelation.

Momentarily startled out of his disquiet, John pinned Sam with his dark eyes. In them reflected both confusion and blatant curiosity as he prodded, "His subconscious? How? I mean…are you sure, Son? Has this happened bef-"

John stopped mid-sentence as one of Dean's specialists entered the room.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Anderson, I'm your son's neurologist, Dr. Watts. I wanted to let you to know that Dean's heart has stabilized and his vitals _are_ looking better. I was called in as a consult after your son suffered an apparent seizure a little while after they'd normalized his heart rate."

The doctor finished gripping their hands in greeting and tucked one hand in his coat pocket, then said, "We were concerned that this could be a direct result of his concussion, so we decided to do some more extensive testing before we updated you on his condition. I felt like it was best to be able to present a comprehensive report for you, that way we can better know what we are dealing with."

The man waited for nodded acknowledgement before he went on.

"Fortunately, his CAT scan, EEG and MRI came back with nearly normal readings. Your son's brain shows no indications of bleeding, which is a very good sign that he's not suffered any brain damage as a result of the concussion. However, there was some slight swelling of the brain due to ischemic anoxia, which is a type of brain injury that results from a lack of oxygen to brain."

Seeing the eyes of the other men widen at his words, the doctor hurried on.

"This specific kind of damage is caused by blood loss and cardiac arrest. We can't be _completely_ certain of a full recovery this early in your son's recovery, but at this point, we feel like any symptoms that Dean may have as a result of this swelling will be temporary and mild in nature."

"One thing did interest us. We found some very unusual activity surrounding Dean's pineal gland. The pineal gland is a cone-shaped organ about the size of a grain of rice and is located in the middle of the brain. Normally, the pineal gland regulates melatonin and other endocrinal functions – which just basically means that it controls our internal clock, if you will."

"It can be viewed as a connection between our bodies and the external world around us. While I don't believe that this is in any way related to Dean's brain injury or any cause for further worry, it _is_ _extremely odd_ that this activity was picked up by our tests and I wanted you to be aware of it."

The neurologist flashed a quirky smile before adding surreptitiously, "Although, parapsychological research maintains that the pineal gland is the center for all psychic phenomena like clairvoyance, telepathy, telekinesis, etc. Some mystic religions call the pineal gland the 'third eye', which is the source of all sixth senses. But, that's all stuff of myths and legends anyway. The only reason I even mentioned it is because I sometimes study parapsychology as a hobby."

At the disconcerting looks he was getting from John and Sam, Dr. Watts stopped – realizing he must have touched a nerve somewhere or perhaps said more than was needed.

"I'm sorry for rambling on," he apologized, looking from one drained face to the other.

"To make matters short, I think Dean's going to be just fine. That last troubling episode seems to have been the turning point we were looking for and he _is _doing better."

"Naturally, we'll run more tests once he regains consciousness and we'll keep you apprised of the results."

The doctor looked from one bewildered face to the other before hurriedly asking, "Is there anything more I can do for you? Anything you need at all? Okay, then, I must finish some paper work on your son. It was nice meeting you both and you be sure to let us know if we can do anything for you."

As the doctor vanished out of sight, he puzzled over the strange looks each man had shared when he had mentioned the myth of the 'third eye'. He'd meant it to be anecdotal, not something worth any serious thought.

"Uh…you don't think…I mean…could Dean possibly-" Sam stammered.

Interrupting quickly, John answered, "Sam, let's not jump to conclusions. There _are _other possibilities. Maybe your psychic connection to Dean, which is what it obviously was, stimulated that area of your brother's brain. That could explain it just as easily."

John dared not put into words what he knew Sam had been hinting at.

Exhaling, John remarked, "I'm just glad he's okay."

Sam agreed whole-heartedly, gushing, "Yeah, thank God. But, somehow…I _sensed_ that he would be...it's hard to explain what I mean by that."

Sam let the matter drop, preferring to steer the conversation back to what the doctor had inadvertently revealed.

Doggedly, Sam continued, "Do you think this pineal gland anomaly is somehow related to what I was telling you about?"

At John's obvious discomfort and puzzled looks, Sam compromised, saying, "You could be right, it could've been nothing more than a residual affect of my psychic abilities, but, just in case, we need to research this a little more. I mean, we _are _going to investigate this, right? I don't think we can just hope that it was a blip on the proverbial radar and just forget it."

Sam trusted his father wouldn't just let this drop.

"I don't know, Sam," John replied, running a hand through his hair, feeling frustrated. Acquiescing, he said, "I guess I could put in a call to a couple of friends and see what they can come up with. I think I might call Missouri first since she would be the number one expert on this particular subject."

"Call Bobby and have him fish my laptop from the hiding spot I left at the crash site. He isn't too far from here anyway. I could be doing some research of my own while we wait."

"Good thinkin'. I'll call Bobby first and then Missouri second. Luckily, I have both numbers on speed dial right up here," John said as he gestured toward his head.

With a snort, Sam remarked, "I'm surprised it's not Swiss cheese up there after that considerable knock you took."

"Well, you know what they say about us Winchesters, hard headed to a fault. Looks like it came in handy this time."

"Yeah," Sam smirked back. "Lucky us."

Sam's thoughts gravitated back to Dean and he surprised by his fierce need to see him.

"Okay, well, since you're going to take care of the phone calls…I think I'll go sit with Dean for a while. I've been thinking we should take turns so we can both get some rest and Dean won't be left down there alone."

Sam hadn't forgotten his promise to his brother and wanted to make sure he kept it.

"All right. After a couple of hours, I'll come down and give you a break," John confirmed, wishing he could join Sam right away.

He knew that taking turns made more sense, but it didn't squash his desire to see his elder son with his own eyes. He needed to know that Dean was _really_ okay.

"And, Dad, make sure you get some sleep while I'm gone. You look like hell."

Sam was a little worried that his father was pushing himself too hard. Guilt could be like that.

Caught off guard, John shot his youngest son a mock glare and sarcastically replied, "Why thanks, Son. It's always a good thing to kick the old man while he's down." Then, sobering at Sam's concerned scowl, John assured, "I will. I promise. Thanks, Sammy."

John gave his son a grateful smile as he fumbled with the patient services pamphlet, trying to figure out how to make long distance phone calls. He sure missed his cell phone at times like this.

"Catch ya later," Sam stated. He climbed cautiously out of his bed, being very deliberate not to bang his wounds or get his IV tangled up. By the time Sam had managed to traverse the short distance from his bed to his dad's wheelchair, John had already slipped back onto his bed and was beginning to dial Bobby's number.

"Yeah," came his dad's distracted answer.

As John pressed the correct buttons on the phone, Sam struggled to wheel out of the room and push the IV stand along with him. He was in too much of a hurry to bother buzzing the nurse's station and hoped no one would notice. Dang near made it too, but a young and pretty candy striper caught him as soon as he prepared to step onto the elevator.

Flashing his best lost-little-boy smile, complete with dimples, he asked if she would mind taking him down to the ICU ward. Unable to resist his charms, the girl took her position behind the wheelchair and complied with his request. Lots of good things could also be said of the Winchester charm. _Ah, Dean would be so proud,_ thought Sam and he felt oddly comforted by the notion.

Before leaving Sam alone with his deeply sedated brother, the candy striper thoughtfully lowered the rail on Dean's bed so that Sam could scoot up and lean across the bed, which he did. The younger Winchester eased his brother's hand in between both of his warm palms as he scrutinized Dean's still form, hoping to see visible signs of improvement.

Wanting and needing that kinship with his brother, he sat like that for several long minutes, not saying anything. Sam wondered if Dean knew he was there, holding his hand. He smiled to himself at what he knew would be his brother's typical reaction to that. But, Sam wanted him to know that he was there for him, waiting for him to wake up –just like he said he would. Sam intended to be there for Dean this time, he wouldn't leave – no matter what.

Timidly, Sam whispered, "Hey, I hear you gave Dad quite a scare earlier. Not nice, big bro, _not _nice at all. You know, though," Sam went on as if Dean was hearing every word, "I am glad you saved _that_ particular little practical joke for Dad and not me. You've given me enough heart attacks these last few days to turn my hair prematurely gray."

Sam's lips quirked as he said, "Yeah, that's probably your _plan_, right? Secure your rightful place as best looking Winchester brother. Yep, I'm onto you now, I've got your number, so you can just stop while you're ahead. You can have that title so long as you _get better_."

Then, as an after thought, he added, "But, I want you to know, I _refuse_ to give up my title as _geekiest _Winchester brother. I earned that one fair and square."

Haltingly, Sam brought his forehead to their joined hands and blew out a frustrated breath. "Oh, man, Dean, I don't even know if you can hear me. Where _are _you? I know you're in there _somewhere_. I just hope you're some place better than you were a little while ago."

Sam couldn't help but remember the vicious winds and the haunted look on Dean's face.

Looking back up, he stifled those wearisome thoughts by saying, "Hey, I talked to your doctor before I came in and he said that if you keep improving, they'll try to wean you off of the ventilator in about five days. He also said that tomorrow they're going to start cutting back on the barbiturates so you can wake up on your own. That's good news, huh?"

Unable to keep avoiding the topic and not really wanting to, Sam confessed, "Dean, you know that I meant _everything_ I said to you earlier. _Every_ word. So, you just hang on to _that_, just keep hangin' on to that, _okay_? Okay."

Not knowing what else to say, Sam lowered his head down into the little nook made by his brother's head and shoulder. Sam watched Dean's chest rise and fall in union with the ventilator, hand still entwined by his brother's.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on absorbing as much of Dean's essence as he could. And the slow minutes ticked on, as if they were in some surreal vacuum of space and time, not knowing what the future would hold for either of them.

oooOOOooo

Several hours later, back in his newly made bed, Sam was intently summoning the phone to ring. John had spoken with Bobby, who was waiting for nightfall to go retrieve their stuff. Unable to reach Missouri, John had opted instead to leave a message on her machine.

When Sam had come back up, his dad had been simmering like a feverish kettle and was already half way out of their room just as the elevator doors had closed behind Sam. Soon enough, though, the young hunter knew the nurses would be shooing a petulant John back up to his own room, insisting that he eat his dinner. Sam _desperately_ wanted to have something to report by then.

Pastor Jim had always taught the boys that patience was a virtue, but Sam felt that his virtues were very loosely tethered at the moment. It only made things worse knowing that the one person who was even more impatient than he was would soon be tearing through that door ant minute.

Sam had tried to distract himself with a short nap. When that didn't work, he'd tried to watch a little TV, but Dean had been right – daytime TV sucked. As a last resort, he'd even tried to solve the crossword puzzle in the newspaper the nurses had brought up at his dad's request, but he found that his mind was unable to focus on the task and had quickly given up. He was going out of his mind not being able to _do_ something _productive_. Only one thing blared through his mind like a siren, _when was Missouri going to call?_

It'd seemed like a miracle straight from God himself when the telephone finally rang, sending Sam into a frantic dive for the hand piece.

"Hello?" he answered, holding his breath in anticipation. Thankfully, he wasn't disappointed.

"Hi, sweetie," came Missouri's familiar, welcome voice. "Dang near fell out of your bed, didn't ya?"

"Well, uh, yeah, I guess I did," he quickly agreed, smiling to himself in wonder.

"Oh, Hon, I'm so sorry for your fam'ly. If I had the means to get over there, I'd be there in nothin' flat – you bet I would. Why, it would be one big Psychic Friends reunion if my car wasn't broke down," she laughed robustly.

After her mirth lifted, she turned serious again. "Dang if you boys don't live on hard times. I wish y'all could find some peace in your lives. Y'all deserve it more than anyone else I know."

"Anyway, I got your dad's message to give 'im a call. Don't tell 'im I said this, but I really could've called sooner. I was just waitin' until I knew I could speak directly to you, Sam. I don't particularly like havin' someone barkin' orders at me the way your dad does when he is beside himself with worry over one of you youngins. Now, what is it I can help y'all with? No, Sam, even powerful psychics like me don't know everythin'. Now, spill, boy, and make it quick before I hang up on you."

Spurred on by Missouri's threat, Sam quickly recounted everything the doctor had said. After he finally finished with the pineal gland speech, he waited silently for her response.

"Whoo-we, boy, you got to be kiddin' me! That doctor actually knew about that 'third eye' thing?" her voice rose an octave.

"Most doctors don't know their butt from a hole in the ground, much less anything to do with the supernatural. Now, don't you worry your head over it, while paranormal powers may be connected to that whatchamacallit-gland, don't cha' go believin' in that Eastern religious pish-posh. _Chi_, my back-end! I'd like 'ta _chi_ somebody's hide for making it so hard for us psychics to appear credible."

Realizing she was off on a tangent, she reined her tirade back in and got to the heart of the matter.

"Now, about your concerns. I really doubt that Dean has become a full-fledged psychic per se. It's more likely that his near-death experience has just made our little Deanie a little more _sensitive _than your average bear. It happens more than you think."

"Okay, but what do you mean by 'sensitive'?" Sam asked, sniggering a little when he imagined how Dean would probably react to being referred to as sensitive.

"Hmm, well, you see," she searched for the words to explain, "you can be sensitive to paranormal phenomena without it actually _originating_ from within yourself like it does with you and me. Dean is a conduit, of sorts. Like when he pulled you into his subconscious. Basically, he was usin' your psychic powers to draw you in because he _needed_ you. If you'd been your average, ordinary Joe, he couldn't've done diddly squat."

Nodding to the phone and quirking his lips, Sam answered, "Yeah…um…I _think_ I get what you mean. So, if Dean is _sensitive_ to all things paranormal, what exactly does that mean for him? You, know…will he be able to communicate with others…like us… and will he be able to just pull me in any time he wants?"

"Well, Sam, it's really hard to say to what extent he'll have control, if any. It's more than likely he'll be_ most_ susceptible when he's unconscious or in a deep sleep. It's also likely, however, that there _may_ be times that he'll be able to communicate much like a clairvoyant would in times of duress."

"But only if the entity truly wants to initiate contact - because, remember, Dean has to have a viable, _willing _participant– he can't just create one from within himself. It's more like he's a bridge between anyone and anything paranormal or that has paranormal abilities. Think of it like this, Dean is a blender. Now the blender won't work if it doesn't have a source of electricity to power it. Same thing here.

"You mean Dean will be able to talk to ghosts?" Sam asked incredulously, eyebrows shot up to the ceiling. Mentally, he tucked the blender comparison away for more appropriate times – like when Dean was conscious and out of danger.

"Only if the entity _wants _to communicate through him. Outside of that, he may just feel emotions, get glimpses of memories, impressions mostly. 'Specially if there's a strong emotion or presence around."

Intrigued, Sam asked, "Now, you said this is possibly a result from a near-death experience…why wouldn't this have been an issue when he was electrocuted?"

"Sam, Honey, these things can't really be explained. They don't follow any set rules or have any concrete laws to them. They just are what they are – unexplainable. Even though he may have been looking death literally in the face that last time, I'm not sure it really qualifies as a NDE. This time, however, your brother was on the brink of crossing that line that no one comes back from, short of a Biblical resurrection."

Missouri allowed Sam a few minutes to digest that.

"Hmmm…well, okay, I have another question I hope you can answer." Sam thoughtfully organized his thoughts for a second before continuing, "Since other entities can…in a way…_access_ Dean, I was wondering if _I _can do the same thing. You know, mentally link with him when _I_ want to…like he did with me."

"Uh, uh, Sam, I don't like where you're goin' with this…I mean, while it _is possible_, I am not sure it would be wise. Dean wouldn't like it and you know it. You have to remember that whatever happens, he'll know it and he _will _remember it," Missouri explained.

"Not even if it's in his best interest? I mean, c'mon, he's in a freakin' coma, right now. He nearly _chose_ to give up and die. I just want to make sure he's okay. I want him to know I'm still here for him. It's not like I'm trying to invade his privacy, read his diary, or something like that."

Sam blew a breath of frustration out, causing his hair to lift with the movement.

"I just want to know what he's going through…I need to _know_, Missouri."

Sam waited, hoping she wouldn't try to talk him out of it or refuse to tell him how to do it.

After a long silence, the voice on the other end cautioned, "Well, let me put it like this. Whatever you do, make certain you're sure it's the right thing for _both_ of you. Don't force yourself on him and _don't_ pry around. You might not like what you see. I understand you're feelin' anxious right now and you need some assurances, but just be very careful that it's really _worth_ it. Dean is probably in a lot of pain right now and if you go pokin' around in his head, you might get an upfront and personal taste of that pain."

"Having said that, there is a way you can do it without forcing your way onto him. You can leave yourself open, so to speak, and give him the opportunity to seek _you _out – then you can help him in a way that leaves the man with his dignity intact. Especially now, while he needs someone to be there for him. Like I said, be sure he _wants_ you there. Nothin' like unwelcome company that doesn't know when the gettin' is good."

Sam solemnly promised, "Yeah, I understand. No forcing – only if he wants my company. All I need now is for you to tell me how to do it."

He could hear Missouri weigh her words carefully before saying, "This is what you'd need to do. First, establish a physical link with your brother…hold his hand, touch his forehead, something along those lines. After that, just relax your mind and body – try to become as still and calm as a lake on a windless day. You want to concentrate on making yourself a mirror to Dean. Let him reflect his thoughts off of you, you know?"

As she continued to drone on, Sam committed each instruction to memory, attentive to every detail, mindfully nodding his understanding to an unseeing telephone. He made sure that nothing she imparted went unheard.

Once she'd finished sharing all that she knew, Sam blustered out, "Wow, Missouri, you really know your stuff. And I'm _very_ grateful for your help." Sam was impressed to say the least.

Her chuckle accompanied her words as she dodged the compliment, saying, "Oh, go on now. I know I'm good, but let's not get all tied up in pats on the back. That's Dean's specialty," she laughed at that and then added for good measure, "But you know that's why your dad has me on speed-dial up here."

Sam suddenly got a mental vision of Missouri pointing to her head.

Suddenly, he found himself laughing right along with her. It truly felt good to release some tension through guileless mirth and the woman's abilities never ceased to amaze him.

Growing more serious, Missouri asked, "Now, Darling, before I have to go, tell me how your dad's doin'. I can see quite well for myself that you're gonna to be right as rain in no time, but how's John doin'."

Sam gripped the phone tighter and checked the doorway before answering.

"Ah, well, you know Dad. He likes to play it close to the vest. He seems pretty okay, though. He's pretty broken up about Dean and I know he's having some trouble with headaches and dizziness – though he would never admit to it. I think he sometimes struggles with short-term memory. It is especially noticeable when it comes to mundane, everyday things - like when he's just read the newspaper. He tends to repeat what he has already told me."

"The doctor's say its no big deal and it is the least we can expect after that nasty blow to his iron core head. They're still amazed he isn't in a coma himself. But that's Dad, for ya, using sheer will to overcome injuries that would kill most people."

Sam chuckled, but it came out sounding a little hollow even to his own ears.

"Oh, Sam, I'm sorry you feel so helpless. I know what a toll this has taken on you. You tryin' to be so strong for everybody an' scared witless yourself. Its okay to admit you're scared, too, darlin'. Anyone in your position would be. I want you to trust what I'm going to tell you, though. Your dad's too stubborn not to be all right, his body will heal in good time."

"As for that brother of yours, God has plans for that young man, big plans, even though he doesn't know it yet. Mark my words, he'll be back to his usual ornery self in no time. You stick close to him. That boy needs you as much as you need him. Two peas in a pod, you boys are. Or maybe more like yin and yang."

"Dean is going to need you to help him through this, and with his stubborn temperament, it won't be easy. But don't you let him push you away or let him shut down on you. Remember, persistence is also a virtue – one you're gonna need. That poor boy only puts up a cocky front for protection – deep down he's really the person you saw in his subconscious."

"That unsure, scared and self-defeated young man is just as much a part of your brother as any of the other faces he wears. That's why he needs you, Sam. You give Dean a purpose, a reason to live…and that'll have to be good enough for the time being."

"Are you saying that Dean is suicidal?" Sam asked in alarm.

"Oh, heavens, no, child. What I mean is that the boy is hell bent on self destruction. He believes that he's less than deserving to live than the people he tries to save. He gets his self-worth from saving others. He doesn't realize that in order to keep saving people he must first stay alive. You can show him that."

Pausing slightly, Sam tentatively asked, "Are you saying that this is all I have to look forward to? Following Dad and Dean around on these hunts, watching their backs? Because I want more from life, ya know. I want something a little more _normal. _I want a home, a job, the whole nine yards. And…I want it for Dean, too. Is that too much to ask?"

"Of course you do, baby. Though that stubborn fool would never admit to it, Dean has dreams of _his own_ as well…and both of you_ deserve_ a real home. But both of you are looking at it the wrong way. It's not a matter of giving up one for the other. No, it is a matter of learning how to _balance_ one life with the other. You _can_ have _both_."

"Once this fire demon thing is resolved, it is up to you and your family to try and find a way to reconcile both lives together. It's your calling to help others, but you can still have a slice of that American pie to go along with it. Eventually, I know you and your brother will get it right. John, on the other hand, will struggle with it. He's too set in his ways now. Although, I can't really get much of a reading off of him concerning his future – but that is not necessarily a bad thing, ya know. Just some things I don't see clearly."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line as Sam struggled with her words.

Then, he asked,"You mean you have seen all that in our future, a normal life and hunting-" Sam stopped, too stunned to go on.

"Oh, no, nothing quite as vivid as a vision of the future," Missouri rushed to say, "it's more what I was talking about earlier. I get impressions, glimpses of what _could_ be. It's still up to you and Dean to _make_ it happen. John, too. I'm just saying that it _is_ a possibility, don't give up on it – and don't let the others give up on it."

Sighing heavily, she continued, "Well, now, I think I've said enough. It's time for me to get goin' – your dad is on his way back up and I know you'll want to discuss Dean's 'sensitivity'," Missouri chuckled at the irony, "with John. You take care, now, young man. I expect you boys not to be strangers, either. Don't forget what I said about your brother and give everyone my best wishes. Bye, now, Sweetie."

And just like that she was gone. She didn't even give Sam a chance to reply. Before he could stop stuttering his own inane goodbyes, his dad came through the door looking a little bit grumpy and out of sorts. Sam smiled inwardly, he knew his dad was miffed and precisely _why_ it was that he had that 'stormy thunderhead' look in his eyes. Sam didn't even have to ask what was wrong and it had _nothing_ to do with his psychic abilities and everything to do with hospital regulations.

TBC

**

* * *

a/n: I just wanted to let everyone know that ****Thru Terry's Eyes** has graciously allowed me the privilege of using her story, **"Chipping Away"** (which was the Winner of Best Story, SNFA awards, Round 2) as a point of reference in the next chapter. I am giving everyone advance notice so you will all have time to check out that heart-breaking little gem before reading Chapter 7. Not that I am saying you _have _to, but it would bring _more_ to the experience for you if you do. Those choosing to read her story, please keep a box of tissues handy for the ending…you _will_ need it!: I just wanted to let everyone know that has graciously allowed me the privilege of using her story, (which was the Winner of Best Story, SNFA awards, Round 2) as a point of reference in the next chapter. I am giving everyone advance notice so you will all have time to check out that heart-breaking little gem before reading Chapter 7. Not that I am saying you to, but it would bring to the experience for you if you do. Those choosing to read her story, please keep a box of tissues handy for the ending…you need it! 

All who are interested in reading "Chipping Away" by Thru Terry's Eyes can find it here on this website by using the search option and typing in either the author's pen name or the title of the story.

Again, I want to send out a special, **super-duper** _thank you_ to Mady Bay and Claire Kennedy for their willingness to help keep me grammatically correct and in good character voice. Both of them have their own stories to write and yet make time to beta mine. It is _deeply_ appreciated!

Also, I want to thank **all of you **who read and review. Each one brightens my day and keeps me motivated to do my best (yes, I eagerly look forward to them every time I post).


	7. Chapt 7: He's Not Heavy, He's My Brother

Chapter 7: He's Not Heavy, He's My Brother

As Sam sat listening to his father's latest rampage, which came between spoonfuls of food, he realized that his father hadn't changed much over the years he had been away to Stanford. Well, okay, he_ had_ changed a little, but not when it came to _certain_ things. John was still stubborn to a fault, all too ready to intimidate when the opportunity presented itself, _and_ he was as lousy at being a patient as he was at taking orders from someone.

But, then, Sam had changed, and _not_ changed, too. Sam had grown up a lot these last four years. He supposed it had something to do with his increasing age, but it also had to do with having spent so much time around strangers – strangers with their _own _set of familial problems. After devoting many a night to listening to his college friends complain about their own parents, he finally came to the stunning realization that _every family_ had problems, fights and complications. Some of his friends' stories had made him glad he'd grown up with _his_ dysfunctional family, such as it was.

Some things about Sam had not changed and probably never would. He still wanted something of a normal life. He didn't want to wile away his best years constantly on the move. And, he still didn't like it when his father _ordered_ him around. Especially without an explanation. Unlike Dean, Sam needed to know why he was being expected to follow a plan _he_ wasn't included in on. It was childish, he knew, but so was his dad's "need to know" policy.

But in retrospect, unlike Dean, he had never been made to feel that his primary responsibility was to see that his brother was kept safe at all times. That was a tall order in itself. But his older brother had taken it one step further by equating Sam's safety with following John's every word without hesitation. Their dad had made sure of that. He'd made sure that Dean had gotten the message the day Sam had nearly fallen victim to the Shtriga. He'd continued to drill that point home anytime Dean had ever failed at protecting little Sammy in any way. No wonder Dean was so screwed up.

Still, even with all of his dad's faults, Sam loved him. In some ways he'd _never_ confess to, Sam had missed his dad all those years away. He never would've thought it possible after they'd had that last big blow-up, but Sam had missed both his brother _and_ father every single holiday that had silently passed him by without their familiar company and every other day in between.

Missing Dean was a given, even if he was a big pain in the butt, but Sam had _never_ expected to miss his dad. He'd been so completely enraged when he'd left that cold, rainy night in May that he'd been absolutely certain that if he _ever_ saw John Winchester's sorry face again it would be too soon.

Now, watching his father wolfing his food down by the mouthfuls, Sam felt a twinge of regret. John inhaled his food like that only when he felt anxious about something. The younger man was finally beginning to see how much his dad really did love his boys. Clearly, the eldest Winchester was besought with worry over Dean and feeling a tremendous amount of guilt over everything that had happened to his sons – about the life he'd given them and not given them. Moved by this knowledge, Sam decided against going down to see his brother alone. Instead, he'd offer to have his father accompany him and put all his _other_ plans on hold.

Knowing how his father needed to be with Dean, he decided to let his dad have first divvies on the 8:00 AM visitation as well. It really was no problem…his plans could wait that long, couldn't they? Of course, it had nothing whatsoever to do with any nervousness he might feel regarding the plans he'd made.

Okay, maybe he was a little nervous, but he was also resolute in his decision. Sam had already gone over and over it, planning it out as best he could. His mind had been made up the very instant Missouri had confirmed the possibility. Also just as firm was his decision not to breathe a word of it to his dad. He didn't want to give him the opportunity to come up with some good reason why he shouldn't do it. Yep, this was going to be his little secret, his and Dean's.

Apathetically returning back to his cardboard meal, Sam tried to pretend everything was status quo. He knew he needed to distract himself from his own thoughts before his pensiveness caught John's unwanted scrutiny.

"Dad, I've been thinking. Since this is the last visit they'll give us for the night, why don't we go down together – instead of taking turns?"

"Really?" his dad mumbled around a mountain of mashed potatoes. "I guess great minds do think alike, Sammy, 'cause I was thinkin' the same thing. I figure that'll give us about two, maybe three hours, before the nurses get the nerve to approach me again."

John smirked to himself; he still had it – good, old-fashioned, intimidate-your-enemy marine tactics worked every time.

Sam smiled knowingly; he knew all too well exactly how his dad could be.

"Yeah, at least that" Sam replied.

oooOOOooo

Once they had settled in next to Dean, John calmed down considerably. Sam understood the sentiment wholeheartedly; it just _felt_ good to be close to his brother. Maybe they just felt that Dean wouldn't dare die as long as they were sitting by his side. While his brother was still drained of all color, he did seem to be improving, if only slightly. The nurses had assured them that he was doing as well as could be expected for someone with his type of injuries.

They also reported that the doctor had left standing orders to begin decreasing the barbiturate drip in his IV first thing in the morning. Sam was relieved to hear that for multiple reasons. One being that the less deeply sedated Dean was, the better able he could communicate with him. He might be more susceptible while unconscious, but Sam didn't want him too deeply out of it either. And two, it gave him hope that his brother might awaken soon.

Later, settled in his own bed for the night, Sam asked for some sedatives of his own. Tomorrow was going to be a big day and he wanted to make sure that he was well rested and ready to go.

oooOOOooo

Sam checked the clock for what seemed like the millionth time that morning. Good, it was just now ten o'clock. Plenty of time to pull this thing off before anyone would be in to bother them. Sam felt the stirrings of nervousness from the night before…and, was that shyness he felt? _C'mon, man, pull it together; this is Dean, your brother, nothing to feel shy about. Yeah, but, this is Dean your brother – God only knows what you might encounter in his brain. Some things a man just doesn't need to know about his brother, _Sam thought.

It was too late to turn back now, though. Sam needed to know that he hadn't left Dean in a bad place, mentally speaking. This was the only way he would know for sure. _Okay, just calm down, Sam. You can do this. First thing Missouri said was to relax my mind and my body – think stillness, like a windless lake, ready to reflect whatever Dean projects…motionless, peaceful and smooth…_

Taking a deep, cleansing breath, he mentally coached himself to let go of all his reservations and relax. _Crap,_ he thought, breaking out of his meditations. He had forgotten the physical link. _Dumb, dumb, dumb_. _Okay,_ he thought, taking Dean's cool hand into his, _let's try this again._ Sam focused on becoming serenity itself, not forcing, just reaching - ready to receive whatever his brother had to dish out. He felt his heart rate slow to a steady, even beat. If only he had known what was to come.

Flinching, Sam caught a brief flash of pain and helpless terror. It was gone just as quickly as it came. Before he had a chance to recover or question, another one slammed into him, punching through his soul with a piercing jab of agony and fear. Sam struggled to keep his wits about him; it was already too late to stop this train wreck from happening and panicking wasn't going to help. Shockwave after shockwave seared his mind with alarming speed, leaving behind the vestiges of Dean's broken emotions, tattered and battle worn.

Then, as they began to slow, they became more like TV screen images trying to focus and then winking back out in quick succession. As the images and feelings increased in their lucidity, Sam began to understand that Dean was very much aware of the ventilator shoved down his throat and of the various sharp pains that flared in his lungs, chest and head.

Before he had time to respond to this knowledge, Sam promptly found himself pulled into Dean's nightmare. There was no childhood backdrop to welcome him this time, just darkness – pitch-black nothingness, smothering and cruel. Dean's anxiety was all-encompassing and horrific. Sam could feel his brother's panic stifling all other emotion, all other thoughts. Dean seemed to be fighting against pain, darkness and tight, invisible bonds keeping his arms pinned by his sides. Sam understood what the fight against the darkness was about, but he was confused by Dean's struggles against his constraints. Dean _wasn't_ tied down, not like…last time.

Remembering something long buried in the past…it hit Sam with stinging clarity what was going on. Dean was remembering that hellish week when he'd been hospitalized with pneumonia, the week that Sam had left home. Memories of being on the ventilator that first time, his arms immobilized by restraints, were replaying themselves across Dean's psyche over and over again.

_Oh,_ thought Sam, _this is not good. Not good at all._ Until now, he had never really understood just how traumatic that incident had been for Dean. Apparently his brother's feverish mind had worked up quite an aversion to ventilators and tie downs. But, in hindsight, who wouldn't – especially someone who didn't like being held down, kept weak and out of control in the best of circumstances.

"Dean," Sam called out gently, hoping to quiet his disturbed brother. "Dean, its Sam – I'm here, everything's going to be okay. Please, just relax and feel my hand in yours."

"Sammy?" Dean hesitantly called back from the dark. "Is it really you, little brother?"

The blackness that had surrounded them gave way to a familiar place and time. Dean had brought them back to that night Sam had finally walked away from him. Eerily, Sam could feel the icy rain pelting his back as he stood facing his brother outside their temporary home of so long ago.

"Yeah, man, it's me. I came back for you. I…wanted to make sure you were okay," explained Sam, feeling a little more than weird about being forced to relive that horrible, ugly night.

Dean paused for a moment, the fat raindrops dripping from his hair and long eyelashes, just like last time. He stood before Sam, rapidly blinking the wetness from his eyes, rubbing his arms and shaking uncontrollably from the chilled night and his remembered fever, looking very much like a lost little boy. He didn't say a word at first, leaving Sam to wonder what he was thinking. But Sam didn't have to wait all that long.

Accusation transforming his face, Dean wailed, "You _left_ me! You sorry son of a bitch, you _left_ me! I was hurt and sick, but you just walked away and left me lying in that puddle of water – not _caring_ that my heart was being ripped from my chest."

Taken aback by his brother's uncharacteristic bluntness, Sam could only gape at Dean while his mind worked quickly to rationalize this situation. He could _feel_ that his brother was getting way too worked up and opted to try for a soothing, even tone, despite the turmoil he was really feeling.

Hoping Dean was willing to listen, he said, "C'mon, man. That happened years ago. It's over, Dean, this isn't real. I'm here now and I'm not going anywhere."

Why did he have to keep reassuring his brother like this? Sam still didn't fully understand the haunted look glittering in his brother's unfathomable eyes.

Then, something strange and unexpected happened. Sam was no longer himself; he was no longer looking through his own eyes or seeing the situation with his own mind. Unwittingly, he found himself seeing through Dean's eyes, feeling Dean's pain, thinking Dean's thoughts.

"Oh, God," he cried out from beneath his brother's crippling burden, years of repressed sorrows assaulting his senses at once. Some of them Sam remembered, but some he had never known about. Flashes of memory paraded through his mind, starting as early as their mother's death. Oh, how Dean's world had been turned upside down then, never to be the same thereafter. Forsaken, that's how it had felt to lose a mother, and in some respects, a father. Forsaken and so very lost.

Sam felt it again when their father left Dean, not once but twice. The first time was the emotional abandonment his brother had felt after the Shtriga incident. The second time was the physical abandonment when he awoke one morning to find his father gone without a word, not even a note. Then, Sam saw Layla's mom asking Dean why he deserved to live more than her daughter. He felt Dean's pungent guilt and anguish when the tortured young man had no suitable answers for her, speechless for once.

Next was the image of the Reaper touching his face with his dead, frozen fingers. Falling to his knees, he felt his brother's suffering as the Reaper scorched his soul with a burning torrent of agony. To his shock, he felt Dean's willingness to be sacrificed for Layla's healing. As that image faded from his mind, Sam was doubled over by a new scourge of painful wounds as the demon tore into his heart, trying to rip it from his body as his father's face stared back at him, stony and uncaring.

Unwilling to see more, he blinked the hated memories away and found himself staring back into his own eyes as an eighteen year old boy. Teenage Sam was tightly gripping his older brother's arms, trying to keep him from crashing down into the flooding rain and mud. Seeing himself from Dean's perspective was completely unnerving. He could hear himself telling his ailing brother to go back to the house – that he had no choice but to leave.

Most of all, Sam could feel Dean's crushing heartache as his baby brother let go of him and walked away, taking his whole reason for living, his entire world as he had known it, with him. Sam felt his knees crack hard on the unforgiving ground as Dean stumbled, crying out one last time, "Sammy, _please_, don't do this…"

He watched helplessly as his younger version turned his back and walked away, disappearing behind an impenetrable wall of water and nighttime haziness. Full of melancholy and despair, Dean's body wretchedly slumped backwards, making a desolate splash as he collided with the soggy, cold ground. An empty void of hopelessness opened up and swallowed him whole.

His brother had no longer cared about what happened to himself after that and all awareness of his surroundings had faded to a blurry background. That his brother had lain broken in the rain no longer caring about his own well-being scared Sam more than anything. The power he held to affect his brother was nearly unbelievable and an awesome responsibility.

Overwhelmed, Sam tore his mind away from the harrowing scene, dropping Dean's hand as if it were a lightening rod. He was himself once again. Managing to stand by putting most of his weight on his good leg and using the IV rack as a balance, he stumbled out to the nurse's station, weakly asking where the nearest bathroom was. Not wanting to wait for the nurse's assistance _or_ the wheelchair, Sam limped awkwardly toward his destination.

He managed a rough, "Thanks, I just need a minute," to silence the nurse's alarmed inquiries.

Once he reached the bathroom's entrance, he shoved himself inside the nearest stall and emptied his stomach of every single thing he had eaten in the last 24 hours. Once the dry heaves abated, he sunk back against the wall and let the wracking sobs rip from his burning throat. Sam hid his overwrought face behind his hands and wept for his brother.

He wept for the child Dean had once been before their mother's death, he wept for the way his brother had wanted to make a sacrifice of himself for Layla, he wept for the unspeakable pain the demon had caused, but mostly - he wept for his brother's destroyed heart each time he and his father had walked away, either emotionally or physically. He allowed his brother's grief to wash over him until he thought he would surely drown in it.

"I'm so sorry, Dean - I'm _so sorry_. Why couldn't we _see_? Why didn't we know? God, Dean, how do you keep it all inside?"

And then it struck him, the truth of the demon's words shone before him like a neon sign. Dean was using his wit to _mask_ all that _pain_. It had partly told the truth. Then he remembered Pastor Jim telling him that demons always sow just enough grains of truth along with their lies to make it convincing.

The demon's head trip had struck a chord deep within his brother by telling a simple truth. Sam doubted that Dean was even fully conscious of just how much those words spoken to him in the cabin that night had messed with his head. _But what can I do to help him?_ Sam wondered as the tears began to dry from his red-rimmed eyes.

Up until now, he really hadn't known just how deeply his leaving had affected Dean. All he could remember from that night was how furious he'd been at his father. John had never laid a hand on him before, and while the slap itself hadn't hurt all that bad, the fact that his father had dared to touch him in that way was more than enough to send him packing without ever looking back. Until now. Sam wondered how many more memories like those were trapped behind his brother's hardened façade. It all explained so much about Dean and his behavior.

Reaching up a weary hand, Sam finished off the last of his tears with a quick swipe and took a deep, steadying breath. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sam began to concentrate. He knew he had to work out some kind of plan, some way of reaching through Dean's fortress of pain and fear. _Recovery of the soul would speed recovery of the body,_ Sam thought. How he wished Pastor Jim was still around to give him advice.

"Mr. Anderson?" questioned a soft, female voice. "Mr. Anderson, are you okay?"

_No,_ he thought, but said, "Uh…yeah. I, uh, might need some help getting up, though."

His legs were still shaky from the vomiting and the leg brace was very cumbersome to deal with from his current position on the floor. Quickly, the middle-aged nurse rushed in and bent down to help him up.

"Sorry for intruding", she stated sheepishly, "I thought I'd better see if you were okay. Once we get you to the door, I have your wheelchair waiting for you so you can get off that leg. Then, I'll take you back up to your room," she stated matter-of-factly.

"No! I, uh, it's just that…I need to be with my brother right now. Please?" Sam wheedled.

"Are you sure you're up to it? You seemed pretty upset and it's not good for you or your brother to get agitated. Maybe you should just take a breather and give yourself some more time," she suggested.

"No, no, I'm fine now. Really, I won't lose it like that again, I promise." He hoped he was more convincing then he felt.

"Well…if you're sure. But, seriously, no more upsetting yourself or your brother, okay?"

Sam gave her his best dimpled smile as he said, "Okay. You have my solemn vow."

He knew he had her on his side the instant she returned his smile with a big, warm, toothy one of her own. He probably reminded her of a son or a favorite nephew. _Nice work, dude,_ he could almost hear Dean's praise.

After Nurse Rhonda, as he had learned from her name tag, had gotten him settled back into his place beside Dean, Sam patiently waited for her to exit the room and leave him and his brother alone again. He wondered if maybe he should just wait until Dean had come up to a more aware state of consciousness before attempting to reason with him. It would be easier without the effects of the drugs messing with Dean's perception of reality.

But the idea of leaving his sibling isolated with his nightmares left Sam nauseous and shaky all over again. As much as he dreaded giving Dean any chance of exposing him to more self-repressed memories, Sam knew he had to at least _try_ to make it better. How else could he keep what he'd witnessed from tormenting his days and nights?

This time, he wouldn't go in unprepared like last time. Sam brainstormed quickly, noticing that his time was nearly up. Putting his hastily constructed, figurative suit of armor on, Sam tentatively gathered Dean's limp hand back into his strong, lean fingers and concentrated on the serene images he had used before. Images, feelings, memories and emotions began to invade his mind once again, threatening to suck him under the tide. This time, instead of giving in to it, Sam wrested control back by mentally projecting an image of his own.

He purposefully rebuilt the portrait of the night he'd left for college. The rain, the chilled air, the shabby little house – everything in exact detail. Dean seemed to be allowing it and stood in the downpour waiting for Sam's cue. Instead of saying a word, the younger Winchester grabbed his brother into his arms and pulled him tightly into an embrace. As Dean stood stiffly in his sibling's arms, not understanding what was happening, Sam began to replay some of his own recollections.

This time Sam allowed Dean to see through _his_ eyes, with _his_ thoughts and feelings. He showed him touching scenes from their childhood that had meant so much to Sam even now. Memories of when Dean had let a frightened Sam share his too-small bed after a nightmare or bad storm, the times Dean had wiped snot and vomit from an ailing Sam's face, the times his brother had taught him how to tie his shoe and ride a bike, the times he'd been there for him when no one else had been, not even their dad. He replayed every single moment that Dean had been personally responsible for, even all the times he had saved Sam's life – time and time again.

Next, Sam shared the depth of his love for his brother by recalling how he'd felt when he'd thought Dean was going to die in Nebraska, how overjoyed he'd been when his sibling had been healed, his guilt for Rockford and for deserting him in Indiana, his burgeoning gratitude for every single moment they'd shared on the road this past year and, last but not least, how he'd achingly missed his big brother those years away at Stanford. Finally, the younger man showed Dean how much it'd hurt to leave him behind that night in the rain. Sam let all of his emotions and sentiments enfold around Dean, hugging him with everything he felt for him right at that very moment.

Haltingly, Dean reached up and accepted Sam's gift by returning his brother's fierce embrace. With one final shudder, he let his head fall onto Sam – hot, grateful tears splashing softly onto the younger man's shirt and neck. The painful release of his misery was finally eased by his baby brother's steadfast love. For the first time in his life, Dean Winchester allowed his grief to be swept away by an onslaught of tears and sobs that had been a long time in coming. And maybe this moment _wouldn't_ put right all that afflicted the broken warrior, but at last he would taste the peace of knowing he wasn't _alone_ anymore.

TBC

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a/n: Thanks again to Thru Terry's Eyes for allowing me to use parts of "Chipping Away" in this chapter. Terry is queen of angst!**

**Special thanks, once again, to Mady Bay and Claire Kennedy for patiently e-mailing me back and forth trying to work out the kinks. Your help was great, not to mention much needed.**

**To everyone else, thanks for the reviews and especially to those of you who take the extra time to include _why_ you like each chapter, those are extra nice to get (like icing on the cake). **

**Also, thanks to all of the anonymous reviewers, sorry I can't really e-mail you personally, but thanks anyway.**


	8. Chapter 8: Awakening

Chapter 8: Awakening

Somewhere in that murky in-between place of dreams and full awareness, Dean's senses tugged at his consciousness and urged him forward. Unable to move or communicate, he was forced to silently take stock of the reality he was given. His body was overwhelmed by a constant burn in his chest accompanied by sharp, stabbing pains in his lungs. His head throbbed and ached with white-hot intensity.

His throat felt raw and he could feel the plastic tube of the ventilator in his mouth and pushing against his larynx. His pain was not the usual ebb and flow, but instead a never-ending assault eating away at his mind. Despite the morphine in his IV, the agony managed to make itself well known.

Pushing himself further toward the surface, he became aware of something more than the all-consuming pain. He could feel the warmth of a hand closed tightly around his, imbuing comfort and security into his slack fingers. He tried to squeeze the hand back, but was unable to summon any movement. He began to realize that the low, steady rumbling around him was someone's voice.

The voice had stopped momentarily as another voice, just as deep, but of a different tone, answered in return. Dean had also noticed that these male voices were joined at regular intervals by a higher-pitched, female voice. No matter, though, the voices were still too far away and didn't make any sense to him. And yet, it was comforting to know he wasn't alone.

The battle he waged against his body was exhausting and he soon found himself losing ground to the nudges of sleep. His body felt like someone had turned up the volume on gravity's pull and the soft bed was inviting. Had his eyes been open, they would be drooping heavily by now.

Wanting to be free of the pain and weariness, Dean surrendered to it, begged for the blissfulness to come rescue him from his struggles. The last thing he remembered was a gentle squeeze from the hand and warm lips pressed against his forehead. Dean was once again plunged into the dark depths of limbo.

Resurfacing several hours later, Dean managed to rouse himself more fully and stayed a little longer. This time, he could nearly make out what the voices were saying. He attempted to open his eyes, squeeze the hand, or use his voice – anything at all, but none seemed to obey his will. It was all very frustrating and confusing. But the pain kept him company, always there to greet him with each awakening.

As before, he felt the tugging of repose and again he didn't fight it but gladly met its welcoming arms. Dean had no idea how long this back and forth tug of war went on. He only knew that each time he awoke, the hand and the voices were there. He also knew that each time seemed to bring him closer to what he desired most – willful control of his body and communication with owner of the hand and voices.

Each time he was released from the void, he would concentrate on making use of his body; giving it everything he had until he had no more to give. Finally, his monumental efforts were rewarded. He felt his fingers give a feeble response to the ever present hand wrapped around his. Just as he began to fade back to black, he felt the pressure returned ten-fold as the strong hand tightened its hold on him. He could've sworn he heard Sammy's voice call out his name, reverently, like a prayer.

"Dean? Dean, can you squeeze my hand again?" Sam leaned in toward his brother's face, examining it for any sign of acknowledgement. He was sure of what he had felt. Dean had moved his fingers ever so slightly; he would've missed it had he not been alone and completely still. But they had moved just the same. Hope and relief rushed through Sam's heart, filling his head with the buzz of adrenaline.

Greedily, he waited for more, begged for more, prayed for more…there _had_ to be more. All he needed was a small confirmation that it hadn't been his imagination. His patience was rewarded as the visible proof he'd been longing for came. A single teardrop trailed down the side of Dean's face. It left behind a glistening saline path before splashing down onto the white pillowcase.

Apparently the nurse, who had come in undetected, also noticed it. Sam became aware of her standing at his elbow when she responded to his breathy catches of emotion by placing a motherly hand in the middle of his back, giving it a loving pat.

Knowingly, she said, "He's starting to come around. That's a good sign. I know it must be hard, but just remember that this is a good sign. He's waking up and is aware of what's going on. He's going to be okay in time, hon. Just try to hang in there, I'm sure he knows you're here and that helps a lot."

The nurse turned to meet Sam's moist eyes. Compassion and experience made her voice soft, but solid as she said, "Oh, sweetie, it'll be okay. He's gonna be fine, really." Patting his hand lightly, she continued, "Can I do anything for you?"

Clearing his voice, Sam gruffly replied, "No, I'm okay. Thanks. It's just that…Dean never cries. Ever. Seeing him like this…I feel so helpless…"

His words faded as he looked at her with unsure eyes.

"Listen, he'll appreciate your being here more than anything else you could possibly do for him. He's very lucky to have a brother who loves him so." Shaking her head sadly, she continued, "You don't know how many people come through here with no one to hold their hand or sit with them. What you're doing is the best medicine in the world. Trust me, I know."

She paused and then said, "It's really not unusual for someone to cry under these circumstances. Between the pain, the drugs and the confusion brought on by head injuries, it's to be expected."

Then she moved away from him, saying, "Now, I need to get his vitals – but you let me know if there's anything at all I can do for you. How about a cold drink when I finish?"

Flashing a brief, shy smile, Sam agreed by saying, "Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks…for everything."

"It's no problem." She returned his smile saying, "So what is your preference: Pepsi, Dr. Pepper, juice, milk or just plain water?"

"A Dr. Pepper, please."

"Okay, one Dr. Pepper coming up." The nurse finished writing down Dean's blood pressure, temperature and other stats before leaving to fetch Sam his soft drink.

He turned to his brother, tenderly wiping away the teary remnant left on Dean's temple. Opting for lightheartedness, Sam quipped, "You are so lucky, dude. You have the nicest nurses waiting on you hand and foot. There's this one nurse, though, she's _very_ hot. We're talkin' Jessica Alba hot. Seriously, you don't know what you're missing. I tell you what, I promise to give you a personal introduction to Nurse Karen as soon as you open your eyes. Deal?"

"Ahem, uh, Mr…Anderson, is it?" sounded an unexpected voice from behind Sam, causing both his body and heart to jump with surprise.

The source of the voice belonged to a policeman, looking very official and all business. _Oh, geez. Not now, please, just go away, _Sam thought impatiently.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Mr. Anderson, but we've been trying to contact you. Last time we came by, you were sound asleep and your father was down here visiting your brother. We hated to bother either of you considering what you're going through. How is he, by the way?"

The cop gestured toward Dean with the pen in his hand before absently tucking it into his shirt pocket.

"Oh, uh, he's doing better. They think he'll be awake soon." Swallowing hard Sam continued, "Where would you like to talk, Officer?"

"Oh, my name is Officer Haskins. You may call me Jack, if you like. Where would be the best place for you, Mr. -"

"Sam's fine. I think there's a waiting room just around the corner and two lefts from the nurse's station."

Sam began to wheel himself toward the door causing the officer to hurry over to help him. Meeting Nurse Gwen in the hallway, he took the soda she offered and thanked her politely. Together, they made their way to the visitor's area. Once he and Officer Haskins assumed their positions in the small, but vacant room, the uniformed man took out a small notepad and absently tugged the pen back out.

"Now, Sam, as you know, we investigate any gunshot wound that's reported by the hospital, which they are mandated to do. I've just finished speaking with your father upstairs and now I need to get your version of what happened. Keep in mind that we have no reason to disbelieve your dad's claims, this is just routine follow up for our paper work." After Sam nodded, the officer prompted him, saying, "Okay, Sam, just tell me what happened."

John had already come up with a cover story, but lying to police had always made Sam a nervous wreck.

Stuttering slightly, he began, "Well, he…um…my dad had just bought this antique Colt – he's a collector – and he was showing it off and bragging about what a find it was. Since it seemed ancient, none of us ever thought to check the chamber for bullets…I mean, who would think a gun that old would still have bullets, right?"

Sam's head dipped and then he was all wide-eyed innocence again.

"Anyway, I wanted to give it a thorough cleaning, so I went to grab some polishing cloths out of my bag, setting the Colt down on the table next to me. I guess I must've gotten my fingers caught up in it somehow, because the next thing I knew the gun was falling and then discharged as soon as it hit the floor – clipping my Dad in the upper thigh."

He shook his head as if remembering and then continued with a swallow, "My brother, Dean, came running into the cabin to see what was going on. We decided to take our dad to the hospital ourselves rather than risking the chance the ambulance might not find us. That's what we were doing when the semi crashed into us. The rest you already know."

Sam gave the guy his best naive, college-boy look while he waited for the verdict to come in.

"Right, that's how your dad explained the situation, too. Sounds kosher to me. And, your story_ is_ backed by the bullet itself. Our guys've never seen one quite like it and confirmed that it was quite a collector's item. In fact, if you would like to have the bullet back, we can mail it to you."

"Yeah, sure, it could be a family heirloom with a whopper of a story behind it," Sam agreed, giving the officer a friendly, lopsided grin. Changing the subject, Sam asked, "Did you ever find out what caused the accident?"

"Well, Mr. Staponski – the truck driver – maintains that he doesn't remember seeing your vehicle. In fact, he says all he can remember was driving down the highway one minute and then the next his truck was all smashed and medical technicians were asking him if he was okay. He says the wreck itself is a complete blank. We suspect he may have had a diabetic episode and passed out considering he has problems with low-blood sugar. Anyway, he feels bad about your family's injuries and the trucking company has already agreed to pay for all of the medical expenses. I think they're afraid you might try to sue if they don't."

_Well, that's a relief,_ thought Sam, _now we don't have to worry about producing a fake insurance card. That would explain why no one has asked for more insurance information._

"Yeah, I'm sure a lawsuit's the last thing they'd want. Well, thanks, Officer, is that all you needed from me?" He kept his winning smile locked firmly in place.

"Yes, I think that'll take care of it. We get accidental shootings around here all the time. Nothing new, practically everyone living here owns some type of firearm…or two or three," the officer chuckled and gave a quick wink. "Between the hunters and the collectors, we make several accidental shooting reports every year - which is how this incident will be filed. Well, Sam, I hope your brother wakes up soon and good luck to you and your dad. We'll need an address to mail the bullet to and, other than that, I guess we are finished here."

Sam quickly gave him Bobby's mailing address, explaining that they would be forwarding all their mail to their family friend for the time being. Then he shook the officer's hand and waited until he was completely out of sight before letting out a whoosh of relieved air. The officer's lack of suspicion meant that the specially made ID's had done the trick.

Dean had the Anderson identity specifically made by a friend with connections. A friend who'd made sure that the identification would stand up to rudimentary background checks. Of course, none of that would matter if it wasn't for the problem of Dean being legally dead and wanted for murder. Sam knew that was going to come back and bite them in the butt some day. But, today _wasn't_ that day.

Returning to his bedside vigil, Sam faithfully watched for an indication that Dean was aware of his presence. Waiting was the hardest part, waiting and not knowing. His confidence that this nightmare would end soon had dwindled as each day slowly bled into the next.

It had been over 24 hours since his brother had been given any sedatives, yet he remained unmoving and silent. Sam worried that the doctors might've missed something or that maybe Dean's concussion was worse then they'd thought. But in the end, all he could do was watch and pray.

Meanwhile, his brother was doing his best to prevail over his damaged body. Unknown to Dean, many hours had been lost since his last effort to move. The time had come for John and Sam's evening visit before they, too, would be confined to their beds for the night. Therefore, at this awakening, Dean was acutely aware of _two_ figures sitting on either side of him instead of one.

He could feel a brief stroke on his forehead at the same time as someone else's fingers lightly grazed his wrist before coming to a stop on top of his hand. The voices sounded familiar. Listening intently, he realized that the first obviously belonged to Sam and the second, huskier voice, belonged to his dad. Hearing them mention his name promptly drew him into the present and strengthened his resolve to connect with his family. He heard a whispered moan escape from around the ventilator as he bent frail fingers into the curve of Sam's hand. This garnered immediate attention.

"Dean? It's Sam. Can you hear me?"

Sam remembered the nurse's instructions to ask only yes or no questions.

Dean forced his eyelids to flutter open into miniscule slits of green. His vision too blurry to make out much more than shapes, he tried his vocal chords again. As the feeble groan met his ears, he realized why he couldn't speak. Flustered and in pain, tears did the talking for him. Seeing his brother's crying pushed Sam into action.

The younger Winchester leaned close to Dean's ear and whispered, "Hey, hey, Dean, it's okay. Just try to relax. Don't try to talk, just rest. Dad and I are here."

Voice wavering with relief, John moved closer, too, saying, "Son, it's Dad. I'm here, Dean. You're gonna be just fine. Sammy and I've been waiting for you to wake up. Are you in a lot of pain?"

Hearing his dad's voice cracking with concern, Dean tried to focus on John's face as he nodded his response. Blinking released more tears and gave way to dejected sobs, taking the place of all the words he wanted to say. John's eyes joined with Sam's as they exchanged helpless looks. There wasn't much they could do for him and they knew it.

Breaking eye contact with his youngest, John dashed at his own wetness and, unable to face Dean's pain, stared down at his feet. He had to keep it together for his son's sake. Unable to push his own feelings aside, John listened to Sam trying to soothe his big brother, not trusting his _own_ voice.

"Dean…I'm sorry. I wish there was something I could do to take it away. I'd give anything if we could make it stop hurting."

Heedless of his little brother's words, Dean's eyes begged Sam for help. He didn't understand what was happening to him – the pain was nearly unbearable and the ventilator gagged him. His body became rigid with panic and the tears increased as his face twisted with misery. Sensing that Dean was becoming increasingly distraught, Sam pressed the red call button.

Calmly meeting Dean's pleading stare, he began stroking his brother's arm and consoled him saying, "Shh, Dean, you're okay. Just stay calm, don't fight the machine. Shh, it's okay, man."

Seeing that his attempts weren't working, Sam tried a little more force.

"Listen to me, Dean, you have to settle down. I won't leave you, I promise, but you have to stay quiet or they'll tie you down and make us leave. That's right, just relax. Good."

Laying a comforting hand lightly on Dean's chest, Sam continued in this manner until the nurse came hurrying in.

"I see someone decided to wake up," she called out enthusiastically, as if this happened all the time. Then, seeing that Dean's heart rate was high, she noted the beats per minute as well as his blood pressure reading.

"He's panicking – I think it's the pain…or maybe it's the machine. Is there anything you can do for him?" John asked, allowing Sam to continue mollifying Dean.

"Sure, now that he's waking up, we might be able to increase the rate of his morphine drip. Hang on, let me call his doctor and see what he wants to do. I'll be right back."

With that, she disappeared hurriedly, leaving the two men to contend with Dean's distress. Sam continued to talk to him and wipe the tears away with his thumb as John placed a reassuring hand on Dean's forehead, smoothing his hair back from his grimacing face. Between the two of them, they managed to quiet him down considerably by the time the nurse came back.

"Okay, his doctor says we can adjust his morphine to make him more comfortable. He also said we could give him a mild sedative. It won't be as strong as the barbiturates, but it'll help him relax," she assured as she walked over to the automatic dosing machine and punched some buttons.

Having taken care of that, she then turned and prepared a needle to shoot the sedative into Dean's IV.

"In about ten to fifteen minutes, he'll start feeling drowsy. Once it takes full effect, it's very likely that he'll fall back to asleep. You can stay with him until then, but after that you should probably head back up to your own rooms. Just let me know if you need anything until then," she said as she finished scribbling some notes on Dean's chart and then left.

Already they could tell that Dean was resting easier. He had stopped making noise and the tears ebbed. They continued to watch over him as his eyelids grew heavy and began to drift shut, his hand going lax on the bed beside him. John kept smoothing Dean's hair as Sam patted and rubbed his brother's chest, being mindful of the area that was injured. Not speaking, they kept a close watch on the dosing man, looking for any signs of distress until they were both sure he was sound asleep.

The night nurse ended the visit by having them wheeled to their rooms, all the while reassuring them that she would take good care of Dean and not to worry. Lying side by side in their beds, they still couldn't speak to each other, afraid that even one uttered syllable would cause a breech of emotion to pour forth. Thusly, they lay until each one fell into a restless sleep that was marked by horrible nightmares and periods of equally terrifying wakefulness.

The next morning found them groggy and sullen. Seeing Dean like that had shaken them to the core. Breakfast barely touched at all, they wondered with dread how Dean was doing today, what kind of condition he'd be in when they went for a visit. Unable to break his daze from the gelling eggs before him, Sam tentatively attempted a conversational tone.

"So, uh…you want to go down together?"

"Hmm? Oh…yeah, that's probably best." John didn't look up, either. His thoughts were still mired with last night's troubles. "You 'bout ready, then?"

"Yes. I don't feel like eggs today, anyway. I wonder if-" Sam's sentence went unfinished as their morning-shift nurse breezed in.

"Are you all finished with – ooh, no appetite today, fellas?" She asked, wrinkling her brow at the still full plates. "Was there something wrong, would you like for me to see if we can get something else?"

"Oh, no, no…we just weren't hungry this morning," John stopped her from forcing more unwanted food on either of them.

"Well, okay. Let's get this stuff cleared away, then. Are you about ready to go down for your morning visit, John?" she asked. By now she was used to his morning routine of going straight to ICU immediately after breakfast, trading off some time later with Sam.

"My son and I are both going down today," John answered tersely.

"Okay, that's fine. I'll get someone in here to help you down. We're working on getting a pair of crutches for you, Sam, since you'll be discharged soon." She paused to look at Sam.

"Discharged? I'm being discharged?" Sam asked. "When?"

"Your doctor will want to see you again before signing any discharge papers, but I suspect he'll do that later this evening." Having finished carrying their trays out, she stopped momentarily to note their lack of consumption on their charts. "I'll send someone right in to help you downstairs." With that, she left them alone again.

"Dad, where am I gonna stay? I can't drive… I can barely go _pee_ by myself." Sam was clearly uneasy about being released.

"Just calm down, Sam. I seriously doubt they're gonna boot you out without someone to pick you up," John said.

"True. But I doubt they're gonna allow me to stay until you and Dean are released. Eventually I'm gonna have to find a place to stay. I figure we need to decide where to go while you and Dean recoup. Any ideas?" Sam waited for his dad to process this.

John nodded as he said, "Let me think about it, make a few calls - it's not something we have to decide right now." John needed some time to hash that one out. Tabling the problem for the time being, John was more concerned about how Dean was doing. "Let's go see your brother and worry about the rest later."

"Okay, I'm ready."

When John and Sam came in, Dean's nurses had just finished changing his bed linens and looked up with pleasant smiles and morning greetings.

"I think someone's feeling a little better this morning," the older one said with a wink. He had a good night, sleeping almost straight through. In fact, he's doing so well that the doctor has decided to start the weaning process a day early. The ventilator has been set to assist mode, which means the machine will help him on his own terms."

Then, turning back to Dean, she remarked, "Looks like you have some company. Okay, Champ, one of us will be back in to check on you a little later. See ya around, handsome."

Giving Dean a playful smile, she patted his foot before leaving to finish her chores.

"Champ? Handsome? Looks like your brother knows how to charm the ladies even with hardware poking out from every direction," John joked.

Smiling down at Dean, Sam said, "That's my big brother, lady killer extraordinaire."

Sam let his dad engage in more banter and small talk as he quietly gauged Dean's responses and tried to assess the situation for himself.

While there were no tears or obvious signals of distress, other than a permanent wince, Sam couldn't help but feel that Dean needed comforting. He picked up his brother's hand and cradled it between both of his, rubbing some warmth into Dean's fingers. Dean reacted instantly by squeezing back and keeping a tight grip on Sam. Throughout the visit, Dean kept up the front for his dad. He nodded when appropriate and kept all visible signs of emotion at bay, giving the impression that the Dean from last night was a fluke and nothing more. However, when the time came for John and Sam to leave, the younger man felt Dean's hold tighten on his hand.

Flicking his gaze quickly to John's, Sam said, "Go on ahead, I'll be up in a minute."

Sam returned the squeeze and waited for their dad to be helped out. Then, refocusing on Dean's expressive eyes, he took in the need, doubt, and pain swirling in their hazel depths.

Dean pressed his eyes shut, trying to hide what he knew Sam saw there. He could see the concern and empathy written all over Sam's face and it was more than he could bear. In spite of his tightly shut eyelids, some wetness managed to slip out in a victorious little dance down the side of his face. Betrayed by his body. He struggled to draw in a breath, needing to abate the rising emotion. He heard Sam speaking softly, like he was afraid he would startle his brother by talking too loud.

"Its okay, Dean. I'm not going to be disappointed to find out you're actually human, he smirked. "Dean, open your eyes and look at me."

Sam softened the command with a grin.

He opened his eyes and blinked. Reaching up with his free hand, he wiped the moisture off his face and then stared intently at his feet, avoiding his little brother's regard.

"Dean."

His eyes snapped to Sam's, unable to ignore the command.

"That's better. You know, you don't have to pretend with me. Besides, you'll be doing _my_ ego a favor by allowing me to feel useful." Sam meant every word wholeheartedly.

Another silent tear slipped down Dean's cheek. But, this time he didn't look away, instead he squeezed his sibling's hand and allowed his eyes to echo the pain in his body. Taking up the burden gratefully, Sam set about making things easier for Dean by entertaining him with stories of the hot nurses and embarrassing situations their dad had been subjected to since being admitted.

By the time Sam finally left his brother, he was resting peacefully with something very close to a smile etched on his features. That was all the thanks the younger man needed. From that point on, Sam made sure he always allowed for private time with his brother – giving Dean the opportunity to let the soldier's mask slip if only for a little while.

TBC

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a/n: As always, thanks to Mady Bay and Claire Kennedy for keeping me correct in all ways.**

**Also, by now you all know I love your reviews and I am ever grateful to each and every one of you who submits one. Thanks.**


	9. Chapter 9: Something Close to Normal

Chapter 9: Something Close to Normal

Today was the big day. Dean was getting off the ventilator and would be able to speak for the first time since the accident. After seven days, he was more than ready. Providing all went well, and he was able to stay off the ventilator, the next step would be to move him into the concentrated care unit for 24 hours and then to a regular hospital room.

Very soon he'd be able to sit up, drink, eat, and pee like a normal person. Yeah, today was a great day in Dean Winchester's book of Best Days Ever. For the first time in a very long time, he felt glad to be alive. Thanks to Sam. He honestly didn't know how he would've gotten through this without Sammy there by his side every step of the way.

Oh, sure, Dad had been in to visit regularly, but Dean knew his dad couldn't handle seeing his oldest son giving in to tears, depression and neediness. What his dad wanted to see was capable, brave, fearless Dean – which he had been sure to deliver on cue. To the contrary, with Sam, a newfound honesty between them had made it easier to let his feelings break through on occasion – and he had been mostly okay with that. Sam had allowed his brother to be whatever it was he needed to be at any given moment. No pretenses, no masks, no nonsense, just Dean.

Dean wasn't sure when or in which of them the change had occurred, but it was there. Maybe it had something to do with those odd dreams he had of Sam. There had been exactly two. Each one equally important to Dean and equally vivid. He'd wondered if his mind had been playing tricks on him because they'd seemed a little _too_ real. The strong medication or even the concussion could have been the culprit.

Or maybe through Sam's psychic abilities, they _had_ been real – but he didn't dare ask his brother about it. Everything was still too fresh and too raw for Dean to talk about. It was a conversation best saved for a time when he was off the hospital's drugs and more in control of his emotions.

But no matter how much he'd appreciated Sam's support, he still felt uncomfortable with his new role of "protected" rather than "protector". It just wasn't his style to depend on _anyone_ like that. He was more used to _being_ the caretaker. He was good at it and it made him feel good to fill that role. He very much wanted to start reining in his out of character behavior, ASAP. Embarrassment burned his cheeks every time he thought about how weak he'd let himself become in front of his kid brother.

Even now, expecting to see Dad and Sam walk through the door together, Dean found himself feeling a little disappointed when there was no Sam shadowing behind their father. This new dependence on his brother had to stop he told himself. There was only one problem – he needed Sam like he had never needed anyone before.

"How're you feelin'? Ready for your big day?" Noticing Dean's hopeful gaze darting behind him, John quickly added, "Oh, uh, Sam's on the phone. He's finalizing some arrangements with Missouri. She offered to let us stay with her until we can get back on our feet again."

Seeing Dean nod his understanding, John felt an awkward pause lengthen between them as he struggled with his next words. _It is now or never, John Winchester. Tell your son how you feel before he's in a position to brush it off. Tell him, coward, tell him now – he needs to hear this._ John knew this was his best chance to make things right. Sam was otherwise occupied and Dean was unable to stop the speech he was working himself up to.

"Listen, Dean…there are some things I need to say." John's nervousness caught Dean's full attention. "I…haven't been the father that I should've been."

At Dean's widening eyes, John held up a hand to stifle any protests. He rushed on, "Just hear me out, Son." The older man took a breath and continued, "Before we lost your mom, this family was the most important thing in my life. I loved your mom and you boys. But, after I lost Mary…I didn't know how to cope. I coped by _not_ coping. I locked it all away and focused on nothing but the hunt, on having revenge."

Grinning sadly, John confessed, "You and Sam paid the price for my inability to deal with what had happened. What I'm trying to say is…well, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I forgot what was important. I'm sorry I dragged you boys into my personal vendetta. I demanded too much from you; put you at too much risk."

John placed a hand on Dean's shoulder before somberly stating, "You've never had a life of your own and it's about time you stopped living _mine_. You _are_ important to me, Dean. I don't think I could've lived with myself if..."

Choking up, John stopped and tried to regain his composure. Pressing his fist near his lips and closing his eyes, John took a moment before going on.

Dean was stunned. He'd caught the quiver in his father's chin and the tremble in his voice before John had dipped his head down in an effort squash the visible traces of emotion. He had an idea of how hard this must be for his dad. He knew his dad better than anyone alive and it hurt him to see this proud marine nearly overcome by his guilt and regret. It was disconcerting to see his hero admit to failure on any front. Dean squirmed a little under the discovery.

Looking back up, John continued speaking, "Dean, I want you to know how important you are to this family. We've made it this far _because_ of you. I only wish I could've told you myself before…before the demon said all those things. They lie, Dean. They take just enough of the truth to make it believable and then twist it to their advantage. I hope you understand that none of those words meant anything…and I _am_ proud of you."

Dean gave his dad a quick nod affirming that he understood, swallowing hard.

Using his fingers to rub at his eyes, John smiled again, letting it touch his eyes this time as he said, "You boys _are_ the most important things in my life and I just needed you to hear that from me."

This was as close as John had come to actually saying the words 'I love you' to his eldest son since Dean could remember. Even though he had added his trademark 'you boys' in there, it still meant so much to Dean. It was what he had longed for during much of his growing up years, but always seemed to lack.

John felt a tentative peace settle between him and his son as he felt Dean's fingers wrap around his in an effort to convey understanding and gratitude. Meeting his son's hazel stare, he smiled at the acceptance he found there. Leaning over, being careful to maneuver around the medical equipment, John embraced his son in a rare show of affection that melted Dean's tough exterior. Briefly, the young man's face crumpled with bare need. Twisting his fingers in his dad's shirt, Dean smothered the emotion in his father's shoulder, willing the tears away.

Standing just outside the privacy curtain, aided by crutches, Sam couldn't move or speak as he watched the two men. Little brother had caught the raw expression on his big brother's face. Not wanting to interrupt the moment, he slipped back out unnoticed. Moving into the hallway, he balanced his weight on the clumsy supports and blinked his watery eyes. The total look of devastation that he'd glimpsed on Dean's face had left him breathless. How could anyone so seemly unaffected carry around such as a deep well of hurt and emotion?

Sniffing loudly and regaining his composure, the youngest Winchester looked up and down the hallways and wondered how long he should wait before going back in – he didn't want to be in plain view of the nurses for too long. If one of them caught him, they would insist on getting a wheelchair right away.

Deciding that Winchester egos couldn't handle more than a few minutes of Hallmark moments, Sam turned back toward the door and slipped in. Sure enough, his dad and Dean were acting like nothing at all had just happened as they both looked up innocently at Sam. Plastering a lop-sided grin on his face, he went along with the ruse.

"Hey, Sam," John tried to affect a casual tone.

Hobbling up to the head of Dean's bed, Sam clapped his hand down on his brother's good shoulder and smirked, saying, "Missouri says, "hi" and she can't wait 'till we get there. She said she's going shopping for plenty of 'good for the body-n-soul food."

John scowled at the phrase. "What exactly does that mean?"

"Well," Sam stopped and acted as though he was trying to pry the information from the deep recesses of his mind. They all knew this was just a corny delay tactic to prolong the suspense. "I think she said something about needing plenty of…oh, what do they call that one bumpy, green vegetable? Or was it a fruit…"

Smirking at his brother's scowl, Sam let them off the hook, saying, "Nah, man, she said something about steak, eggs and potatoes." Sam laughed outright at the other men's over-exaggerated looks of relief. "Ah-ha, I had you guys thinkin' she was gonna make us eat, what, avocados and lima beans?"

"Sam, your brother's a _sick _man; don't tease him like that. He'll be feigning a set back just so he can stay here and eat the hospital's food instead," John scolded playfully.

"Ergh," Sam grimaced, "that _would_ be a desperate move. No, no, she is planning on taking good care of us. So, how is my favorite brother doing today? Ready to get out of this pleasure palace, yet?"

John smiled at Sam's efforts to put Dean at ease with harmless banter and replied, "His doctor said they were planning on removing the ventilator this afternoon. If all goes well, then they'll move him to…uh, what was it called?" Thinking a minute, he ventured, "The concentrated care unit. After another twenty-four hours there, he gets a regular hospital room."

"That's sounds great. I'm sure I'm not the only one ready to blow this joint." Sam punctuated his words with a generous widening of the eyes and uplifted eyebrows. "Speaking of which, I'm going to need a motel room soon. I think they plan on having me out early next week. The doc said I should be able to take care of myself with no problems by then."

Looking at Dean he continued, "Dad's doctor says he should be ready to leave by that time, as long as I feel up to it. I told the doc I could manage just fine providing Dad can take himself to the little boys' room on his own – that's where I draw the line." Sam shot John an inquiring, mischievous look.

"Okay, Sam, that's enough. No need for disturbing visuals. Anyway, Dean needs to rest so he'll be ready for this afternoon."

Directing his gaze to Dean, John leaned forward, placing a hand on his son's forearm, and said, "I'll be back down before they take the tubes out, Dean. I want you to try and rest in the meantime, okay?" After getting a complying nod, John turned to Sam, saying, "I'm headed back up."

"Yeah, okay. I'll be right behind you," Sam assured him, pulling up a chair next to his brother's bed.

Jerking his head toward the direction their father had just gone, he asked, "Things okay?"

The only response Dean was capable of giving was to look his brother in the eye and nod.

"Dean, I know I've said some pretty harsh things about the old man in the past, but after all of this, I realize that he really does care."

Sam lifted a shoulder before going on, "I never thought I'd hear myself say that, and I'm sure it doesn't mean we'll always get along, but…I want you to know…I'm trying. And, I think Dad's trying, too. This is has been eatin' at him, seeing you like this, you know?

The nod came, but with a tinge of sadness in his brother's eyes. Sam was afraid of this, had hoped against it. Despite knowing better, Dean hadn't been able to completely put the demon's words out of his mind.

He knew that on some level Dean had harbored the belief that his family didn't really need him – at least not like he wanted them to, not like he needed them. He'd seen it in Dean's face when the fire demon was taunting him. At some point, they were going to _have _talk about this. Not wanting to push the issue right now, Sam nodded back and let it drop - regretfully getting up and following John back upstairs to their room.

By the time the mobile Winchesters had come back down for the extubation, the nurses had already laid out all the needed medical equipment and were raising Dean's bed up to a 90 degree angle. The respiratory therapist had already explained the procedure to Dean and had left to check on the status of another patient while the nursing staff continued to prepare the room.

Nervous, Dean unconsciously fiddled with the hem of his hospital gown and shot furtive looks in the direction of his family. The other men engaged in good-natured teasing and conversational chit chat to ease the young hunter's nerves, but it proved to be difficult considering that both John and Sam kept cringing and shuddering at the assortment of paraphernalia spread out on the waiting tray.

Finally the time had come and the therapist, nurses and a physician all gathered around Dean's bed. They began by removing the tape securing the tube to Dean's nose and the band holding the tube in his throat in place, asking him to sit up as straight as he could. Next, the nurse asked Dean to breathe slowly as they inserted the suctioning catheter into the endotracheal tube running down his throat.

Once they had finished suctioning away the mucus, the cuff was deflated and the therapist asked Dean to take a deep breath and cough. As he obediently did as he was told, the doctor deftly removed the tube in one fluid motion. Deep gagging turned into coughing as the tube slid out. Once the coughing eased, they promptly put an oxygen mask in its place.

"Well," Sam was the first to speak, "How do you feel?"

"Bet-" Dean began before coughing and gagging again. His throat was raw and his voice was a hoarse whisper as he continued, "Better. I know one thi-thing for sure."

"Yeah? What's that?" Sam took the bait.

"Dude, I'm sooo never let-letting you drive again. My car is _completely_ trashed. You know that, right?"

A wide grin broke out over Sam's face as he played along, saying, "Yeah, sorry about that. It wasn't my fault, though. Cops said the truck driver must have passed out from low blood sugar problems."

"Well," Dean stopped briefly to clear his throat, "Somebody bet-ter make sure my baby gets pa-tched back up or I'm gonna-" his throat gave out to a wimpy squeak as if to thwart the malice of his words, "I'm gonna kick me some ass."

At this John sardonically added, "Son, I don't think you're gonna be kicking anyone's anything for some time to come. Just relax. The truck driving company has agreed to pay for all the medical expenses and for the repairs to the Impala. By the time they get done with her, she's gonna be like a brand new car."

Eyes suddenly wide with alarm, Dean started to ask, "W-wait, what about the weapons, the ID's-"

"Take it easy, Dean. Sam and Bobby already took care of it. The Impala is parked at Bobby's now."

Relief settled back into Dean's worried eyes and he eased back down onto his pillows.

"God bless, Bobby." Then, pointedly looking at his father, Dean said, "You owe that man an apology, bi…big...big time."

Sam stepped in before John could respond to that. "Oo-kay, I guess it is time for us to leave, wouldn't want you to strain your voice or somethin'. Rest up, okay?"

"And…Dean?" John stopped and waited for Dean's predictably raised eyebrow that always accompanied his "What?" look. Then deadpanned, "Stop worrying about the car. I'm sure Sam and I can come up with a nice used Geo Tracker. If you're _real_ lucky, we might be able to find it in that pretty neon purple you're so crazy about."

John laughed at the heated glare his son shot him. It was good to have things returning to back to normal.

Six hours later, Dean had been moved to his CCU room where visiting hours were a little more lax and Sam needed to be with him. Quietly sneaking out of their room, Sam was careful not to wake his sleeping father who had dropped off only minutes after his doctor had insisted on giving him a sedative for rest. When he got to his brother's new room, Dean was awake and sitting part way up in his bed.

By just one look at his brother's face, Sam could tell something was wrong. Dean would die if he knew, but his expressive face had always been an open book waiting to be read if you knew what to look for. Sam was an expert at accurately picking up on each subtle change and nuance. Right now, he could see Dean was troubled by something. His brother's face hadn't looked quite like that since the day Layla had to come to say goodbye. As he sat down, Dean glanced up briefly, arching his eyebrow in his characteristic greeting.

"Hey, what's going on?"

Sam preferred to take the direct approach.

Letting out a small sigh, Dean croaked, "Nothing much." Pausing to wince – it still hurt to talk - Dean shifted his gaze to his hands resting in his lap. "Where's dad?"

"Would you believe sleeping? His doctor insisted," Sam answered.

"That's good. He needs the rest." Again, a strained pause, as if Dean had more on his mind than he was able to voice. Pressing his head fully back onto his pillow, Dean stared up at the ceiling for several more seconds before asking, "So…were you really gonna ask her to marry you?"

Astonished by his brother's left-field question, Sam stumbled a second or two before he could answer. The shock and emotion strangled Sam's voice as he said, "Ye-Yeah, I was."

He said no more, still not sure where this was coming from.

Dean looked his kid brother in the eyes before asking, "Did _she_ know?"

A far away expression stole over Sam's features as he smirked, "She suspected. I think my asking her which wedding set she liked best every time we walked by a jeweler at the mall was a big tip off."

That seemed to satisfy Dean for a moment. Then, he asked, "Were you plannin' on telling me or was I supposed to find out from the newspaper?"

"Dean, I-" Sam wasn't sure what to say. "I don't know what I was planning. I'd just decided that I was going to ask her a few weeks before she died. Of course, I _wanted_ to tell you. I wanted to tell Dad, but after the way I left…I didn't really know if I could or even if I should."

"Sam, you know you could've called me. I _never_ wanted you to leave like that. Hell, I never wanted you to _leave_."

Sam could hear the impatience laced with hurt in his brother's roughened voice. Before he could react, though, Dean held up a hand, smothering Sam's rebuttal. "It's okay. I shouldn't have brought it up. Sorry – it really _isn't_ any of my business."

Sam could hear the hurt reflected in his brother's voice and knew there was nothing he could say to make it better. "Dean, don't apologize. I _should've_ called."

"Like I said Sam, none of my business. Anyway, I'm too tired to get into it now." Dean went back to his sullen silence as Sam fished around for something to say, to ease the tension.

Playing it safe, Sam asked, "So, how's your throat feeling?"

"Hurts like hell, but I'll live."

After his own words had time to sink in, Dean grinned ruefully at his choice of phrases.

This only furthered Sam's uneasiness by degrees and he looked away from his brother, choosing to stare instead at the IV bag hanging over Dean's head.

After the heavy stillness became overbearing, Sam broke the stalemate, asking, "Would you like a drink or something? You know, for your throat?"

"Naw, it hurts too much to swallow right now. Maybe later, but thanks for the offer." Dean waited a beat and then soothed, "Sammy, man, I'm sorry. I've just got a lot on my mind right now."

"Dean, it's okay. I think we _all_ have a lot on our minds right now. Do you wanna talk about it?"

Sam earnestly wanted to know what was bothering Dean.

Laughing with sarcasm, Dean answered, "_No_, I. Do. _Not._" Then, hoping to ease his brother's stewing, he added, "Not right now, anyway. I just need to sort some things out on my own first, go over it in my head, you know? If I need to bounce it around out loud, you'll be the first to know. Okay, pal?"

"Yeah, okay. But Dean, we _are_ going to have to talk about this. I mean it. I'm not letting you off that easy."

"Trust me, dude, I know. You're like a pit bull with a meaty bone."

Dean reached over and patted Sam on the knee in brotherly affection and then sighed, closing his eyes for just a moment. Watching him struggling to swallow and sensing his brother's need, Sam gladly took up the slack, chatting easily about this and that. Feeling in the mood for sharing, he even related some of his old college adventures. The brothers talked and shared laughs until the elder man's weariness became too obvious to pretend. Just before Sam got up to leave, Dean stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Hey, Sammy?" Dean started, red color beginning to creep into his cheeks.

"Yeah?" Sam's curiosity was piqued by the sudden reddening of his brother's face. It was a stark contrast against his pallid features.

"Thanks, man," Dean answered, his face serious and his voice full of underlying emotion.

"For what?" Sam, asked, still curious where this was going.

"You, know, for being here for me. For being there when I woke up, for staying with me this whole time. It _really_ means a lot and...I just wanted to say, thanks."

His brother's eyes were shiny with some unsaid feeling, causing Sam's chest to tighten and his lips to quirk.

"We're brothers. Of course I'm here for you – always will be, too. G'night, Dean."

"Night," Dean echoed back, scooting down lower into his bed.

Relieved, but exhausted, he was grateful when Sam flipped off the glaring lights and left quietly. It was going to be so sweet getting to sleep without that frickin' tube jammed down his throat or the constant annoying hiss of the ventilator pumping air into his lungs.

_Sleep…is gooood,_ thought Dean, _Dreams of hot nurses…even better._ Wrapping his arm in the top sheet, he rolled over onto his side, taking the sheet with him. Only an hour after he had been enfolded by the comfort of slumber, a nurse came in to take his temperature and write down more notes on his patient log. Annoyed at the disturbance, he settled onto his back, hoping sleep would come again quickly. Gradually, he felt himself succumbing to his body's desire for rest.

At first, the dreams were predictable and pleasant. Hot girls and fast cars. Heart pumping hunts that ended in the perfect save. Soon, though, the dreams turned into black nightmares of jobs gone wrong and of being left alone. No Sam was waiting for him – not in the car, not in the motel room they shared, not by his side on the hunts. No Sammy anywhere.

Dean began running. He to didn't know where to, he just knew he had to get away from this frightening place where there was no little brother to fight by his side. As he ran, the scenery would change. Sometimes he was running down a city street, sometimes up the stairs of an old abandoned building. No matter what the background, though, he couldn't find his brother. He called Sam's name over and over until his voice gave out - he couldn't understand where Sam had gone.

The longer Dean ran, the more frantic he became. He was afraid he would never find an escape from this wasteland of pure terror. Just as he rounded the next corner of a hallway full of doors and tacky carpet, Dean noticed that the last door at the end of the hallway was glaringly different from all the rest.

Instead of the usual black and white that he normally dreamed in, this door stood out in a bright ultramarine blue with a gleaming, silver doorknob. He pulled up abruptly and paused to stare at the ominous door. He noticed it was slightly ajar, welcoming him forward. Much like a cat, Dean's curiosity got the better of him and he knew he had to find out what waited behind its wooden barrier. Something _definitely_ wantedhim to come.

Cautiously, hunter's instincts sharp, he eased forward. About halfway there, he became acutely aware of the beading sweat along his brow and hairline. It threatened to spill its stinging saltiness into his eyes, blinding him to danger. Pausing to reach up and mop off the wetness with his cotton shirt, he wondered if proceeding was the best plan of action. As he lowered his sweat dampened arm, he was surprised to notice that his shirt had color just like the door.

Unlike the door, however, his shirt was a dark, cobalt blue. _Well, _he thought to himself, _ain't that just a kicker._ But, the color wasn't just restricted to his shirt - his pants, shoes and skin all shone in brilliant Technicolor just like Dorothy in _The Wizard of Oz._ He was beginning to wonder when the Cowardly Lion would bound out from behind one of the many doors to chase poor little Toto. Shaking off the amusing thought - a goofy smile still plastered on his face - Dean resumed his stealthy advancement toward his destination.

Drawing closer to the opening, he could see golden light pouring forth from the gap in the doorway. It practically beckoned to him. Obediently, he continued toward it, feeling himself becoming more perplexed by it than afraid. Dean's instincts had never been wrong when it counted, and he sent up a silent prayer that today wasn't the day of his betrayal by hunches.

Blinking against the intense light slicing through the dimness, he reached down a hesitant hand toward the doorknob. Trembling fingertips met the cold metal and he gripped it lightly before mentally starting his count down. _One, two, three!_ Giving it a hard yank, he flung the door wide open and allowed the warm, magnificent light to engulf him entirely.

TBC

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a/n: I apologize for taking so long to get these last two chapters out. Also, to all of you who read and reviewed and did not receive a personal message back from me, sorry about that too. I was too busy trying to get this chapter ready to go.**

**I am so very grateful for not only all of the new reviews sent my way, but also all of you who continue to review each and every chapter. You are all wonderful to me!**

**This time I'd like to thank Claire Kennedy, Eyelyo and Tracer 2032 for editing this chapter, all of your help is very much appreciated. Also, let me just say to Mady Bay - I miss you big time, girl, but I hope you are enjoying your vacation!**

**Edited to say: Thanks Mady for the corrections, as always, I appreciate your efforts.**


	10. Chapter 10: Dreams Like These

Chapter 10: Dreams Like These

Dean was blinded by the radiant light surging all around him and through him. His body, teeming with warmth as from a long soak in the sun, was vibrating with emotions being emitted from something – or someone – other than himself. Throwing a slender hand up before his eyes in an effort to shield them from the brightness, he strained to see past his hand to the source of the light.

At first, he could see nothing at all…but he could _feel_. The origin of the emotions sluicing through his mind and body was in the room with him. _Where is Sam?_ The thought was not his own, it belonged to…the other one. He felt sadness, desperation and loss seeping into his every pore, threatening to submerse him in a sea of despair. But, what could this possibly have to do with Sam? And why would this entity even know his brother's name?

As Dean's eyes adjusted to the flooding light, he noticed the outline of someone standing at the window looking out. He walked guardedly toward the figure. Just as he came close enough to make out the features of a woman, he was suddenly overcome by a wave of dizziness and nausea. Reaching up to cradle his swimming, pounding head in his hands, he became aware of a distant voice calling out his name. The floor beneath his feet shifted out from under him and he was free falling.

"Dean? Dean! What is it?!"

Putting most of his weight onto his good leg, Sam grabbed his brother's arms and tried to pry them away from his head. Dean feebly tried to twist out of his brother's hold.

"Dean, look at me!" Sam wrenched his brother's hands away from his head and peered into the elder Winchester's face.

Sickly pale, face pinched, Dean looked back at him – gasping to regain his breath, a trickle of blood trailing from his nose.

"Are you okay, man?" the younger man asked, letting go of his brother's hands to grab a tissue from the bedside table.

Dean didn't answer right away; letting the hand holding the tissue fall limply into his lap while the other gingerly probed his temple. Easing back onto the crinkled pillows, he removed the nose cannula and began dabbing at his nose with the tissue. He stopped to stare at the cardinal stain as if it were an offense.

Grimacing, Dean hoarsely answered, "I'm fine. Stop hovering, Sam."

Dean was surprised to find that the room was now softly lit by the early morning sun. Barely peeking up over the horizon, the great yellow orb was only a sliver resting itself on the landscape. Staring out the curtained window at the painted sky, Dean rummaged through his mind looking for the right answer to the question of what had just happened. He could've sworn he had fallen asleep only minutes ago. Shaking the dust bunnies from the corners of his brain, he finished cleaning off the bothersome oxygen device and wearily put it back in its place.

Sam stepped back and allowed his brother to catch his breath, which was still coming in short puffs and gasps.

"I wouldn't exactly call this fine," Sam huffed, gesturing at his brother's current condition. "What happened? Maybe we should call the nurse." Sam reached over Dean to retrieve the call button, but not quickly enough.

Dean intercepted by clasping onto Sam's wrist and barking out, "Don't. I said I'm fine." The rapid movement caused a painful grimace as his ribs and chest registered their complaints.

Startled by his brother's edgy tone, Sam stopped to scrutinize his sibling's face. Dean still looked terribly white, but his nose had already stopped its crimson flow and he seemed to be calming down.

Setting his lips into a thin line, Sam asked, "Okay, Dean. What's going on? And don't say 'nothing', because it's definitely _something_ when your brother wakes up crying out and clenching his head as if it might pop off." Sam gave him his best 'this better be good' look.

"Dude, I did _not_ cry out."

Dean glared at him as he mentally scrambled for a plausible story. When Sam just held the glare and adjusted his own face into a stony mask of resolve, he decided to come clean.

"Like I said before, I'm fine. I just had a…a strange dream. That's it, nothing to worry your pretty little head over, Florence."

"A dream did this?" Sam motioned toward his brother's bloody tissue. "C'mon, man. I was born at night, but not _last_ night."

"Honest to God, Sam, it was just a dream."

Not liking the way his brother continued to eye the call button, he realized he was going to have to do better than that. Expounding on his earlier statement, Dean added, "I was dreaming about running, trying to find you…but I couldn't. Then, I found this room…and some glowy chick standing by a window, suddenly I was falling and then woke up to your ugly mug stuck in my face."

Dean measured out a well-timed pause, smirked and then said, "How do I know _you_ didn't bloody my nose trying to hold my hand a minute ago."

Rolling his eyes in disgust, Sam spouted, "I didn't give you that nose bleed and you know it, Dean."

Sam's hands were propped on his hips and his eyes narrowed. Dean could tell he was waiting for more.

"You're not going to let it go, are you?" Seeing his little brother cross his arms over his chest in defiance, he knew Sam was resolute. Not having the strength to fight him, he decided to give in – just this one time.

"You remember when I told you I needed to think some things over?" Dean paused for Sam's acknowledgement.

"Yeah, it was just last night. I remember." Sam's head nodded in agreement, but confusion was written on his face.

"Well," Dean resumed, "this was one of those things I was thinking over. I…I've been having some…_interesting_ dreams lately." Watching his brother closely for any hint of alarm, he waited.

"_Interesting_? What do you mean by _interesting_? Like my-dreams-come-true interesting?" Trying to sound supportive, Sam buried his visible concern away from Dean's stare.

"No, not like _your_ kind of interesting. Different from that. Like…dreams that seem _exceptionally_ vivid and real. Like dreams that feel like someone's in my head…_talking_ to me." Dean winced and waited for an outburst.

"Talking to you," Sam echoed loudly, eyebrows disappearing up under his long, tawny bangs. Immediately, Sam's mind recalled the "visits" to his brother's psyche, wondering if this was what Dean was referring to. "Okay. Do you…recognize who or what this person is?"

"Well, before the ghost chick…it was…you. Twice as a matter of fact."

Still cautious, Dean continued to gauge Sam's reactions to each confession, hoping his brother wouldn't think he was crazy. _I'm not possessed, either, _the thought whispered through his mind

"Me? Are you sure?"

Sam braced himself for the answer he already knew was coming. He had hoped that by letting Dean come to his own conclusions, it'd make exposing the truth easier for both of them.

"Judging by the look on your face, Sammy, I think that's all the proof I need. You _were_ there, in my head talking to me, weren't you?"

Dean was flabbergasted. While he had suspected for some time, it still came as a punch to the gut to know it was true. He could see the truth of it in Sam's nervous eyes, in the way he held himself stiff.

Sighing heavily, Sam flopped down into the nearest chair with a hard thud. Resignedly, Sam responded, "Yeah, it was me. I was there. I've wanted to talk to you about it, but I wasn't sure how you'd react."

Gesturing with his eyebrows and hands, Dean asked, "So, it _was_ you there at our old camping grounds? And then, again at the old house we were living in when you left for Stanford?"

Dean's face was awash with shock and he was visibly uncomfortable with the idea of his kid brother parading around in his head.

Sam dipped his head in affirmation.

"But…how? I mean…how's that even possible?" Then, starting to feel the panic and anger at having been so exposed and vulnerable, he demanded, "Tell me you weren't using your creepy-assed powers to get into my head."

"No, God, no! It wasn't like that – I would _never_ do that." Sam's head was still shaking side to side with denial as he stalled, "Just…promise me you won't freak out, okay? Promise, Dean."

"Yeah, sure, whatever. Just tell me, Sam," Dean bit out, growing short on patience.

"It happened that first day after the accident. You were still in a coma – we didn't know if you were going to make it." Sam swallowed, let his eyes dart around the room briefly, then said, "And, I guess I must've nodded off because I remember having this dream about you, the camping grounds and a windy cliff."

Sam's face held an apology for what came next. He sighed and gestured with his hands, saying, "Only…it wasn't a dream at all. Somehow, you had managed to pull me into your subconscious mind."

He watched Dean's face drain a little, a small hiccup in his breathing, but otherwise no outward reaction, so he went on.

"Later, when I woke up, your doctor came by to give Dad and me an update. Your doc said that they ran some tests after you'd had a mild seizure and he discovered some unusual activity around your pineal gland. That's a tiny little gland located-"

"Sam!" Dean growled, indicating that he wasn't interested in an anatomy lesson at the moment.

"Well, anyway, Dad and I got worried after he mentioned that the pineal gland was believed by some to be the center for paranormal activity so, we called Missouri for advice. She said that your near death experience had likely awakened a…certain _sensitivity _for anything metaphysical."

"And this means, what? I've got the shining, too?!" Dean couldn't believe his ears. "No, way, man. Not happening." Dean began to bull up. One psychic in the family was one too many as it was.

"Are you even listening to me? I didn't say you were _psychic_." Sam ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. "I said you were more susceptible to the paranormal. That means you can pick up on any supernatural activity around you, kind of like a ham radio."

Sam watched Dean's face as this sank in. He could see the parade of emotions marching across his brother's features as the meaning behind the words became clear.

"So now you're tellin' me I'm a freakin' human antenna for ghosts?" Dean's green eyes went wide with the realization of what Sam was trying to say.

"Not just spirits, Dean. _Anything_ paranormal. Like me, for instance. You can channel my abilities to communicate with me. It's like you can take a small supernatural vibration and tap into it. Bad thing is, it's a two way street. Anything paranormal can also tap into you." Satisfied with his comparison, Sam stopped and waited for the meaning to click.

Dean glowered back at Sam for a few minutes. "And you're sure about this? You checked it out yourself."

"Yeah, Dean. As soon as Bobby dropped off my lap top, I researched everything. It all checked out."

"Well, isn't that just perfect," Dean grumbled, his face looking like he'd tasted something unsavory. "This could seriously screw up any future adventures into Never, Never Land, not to mention what could happen when we're on a hunt."

He stopped and looked contemplative for several long seconds. Sam was about ready to interject his own thoughts when Dean began to speak again.

Looking sheepish, he asked, "So, you're saying that…I drew you to me? And, you saw all that, you know, in my head?"

"Well, yeah. Saw it and felt it. I gotta say, man, you've really got to lighten up before you give yourself an aneurism."

Giving Dean a lopsided grin, Sam was hoping that the good-natured jesting would put his brother at ease. Unfortunately, it never even registered with his older brother. Quick-witted, Dean had instantly latched onto something else Sam had inadvertently let slip.

"Felt? Aw, man, I don't like where this is going. Exactly what do you mean by "felt", Sam?" Dean's instincts told him this wasn't going to be good.

Giving himself a mental kick, Sam grudgingly answered, "Well, um, you know – felt everything you felt. I could see myself from your perspective." Growing quiet for a second, Sam considered his next words carefully before saying, "I'm sorry about all that stuff that happened when I left. I never intended for you to be caught in-between Dad and I."

Seeing Dean flush slightly, Sam quickly put in, "Really, Dean. I _am_ sorry. I never meant for you to be hurt. It's important that you understand that. And I never should've let it put a wedge between us. I regret that most of all."

His brother glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and shrugged before saying, "Yeah, I know. You showed me, remember? If I recall correctly, I got a front row seat to 'My Brother and Me' by Sammy Winchester."

Seeing that Sam wasn't going to be brushed off, Dean sobered, quietly admitting, "Listen, you did what you had to do and…I'm okay with that. Things happen sometimes and it's nobody's fault. It just is. We just…deal."

Dean tried to hide the raw emotion breaking out just under the surface – his heart heaved with the memories of Sam's leaving and the new knowledge of what his brother felt for him. Dean squirmed under the heavy weight of his little brother's stare. He hoped he couldn't see how affected his big brother was by all of this.

Sam hated to change subjects just when they were finally communicating, but he could see that Dean was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with this kind of talk and, besides, he really did have an important question to ask. So he nodded and let the sentence hang a moment before jumping back in.

"Listen, something you said earlier is bugging me." Bewilderment twisting his features, Sam asked, "What does any of this have to do with what just happened?"

"Come on, Sam. Do we really have to do this now? I mean, I just found out that I'm Dennis Quaid and Jim Caviezel's short-wave radio – except I don't need the aid of the Aurora Borealis to boost my transmissions."

Sam pulled a face, the one that says 'Pit-Bull, remember?' and Dean knew he was screwed. He didn't want to get into this too far because he didn't have all the answers yet, but he knew his brother better than he knew himself.

Dean rolled his eyes and quipped, "In this latest installment of My Freakishly Real Nightmares, I was running around trying to find you, right? But the background kept changing and no you – anywhere. I remember running down this hallway full of doors and fugly carpet and at the end was a big blue door with light coming from it."

"When I opened the door, some ghost chick was there, looking out a window. And, I…_knew_ she needed help…that this wasn't a dream. It felt like when you were in my head talking to me. That's pretty much it. End of story." Dean shrugged nonchalantly as if this was a common occurrence and nothing to be upset about.

"A ghost? And she was asking you for help?" Sam realized he must sound like a parrot, but this was new territory for the both of them and he wanted to make sure he understood Dean's words. Getting his brother's nod, he went on, "What's the _very_ last thing you remember?"

Sam watched him scrunch his face with concentration as Dean recalled, "I was walking toward her, about to go all Luke Skywalker to her Princess Leia, when someone started ramming spikes into my brain and then I woke up to your puppy-eyed mug two seconds from my face."

Sam thoughtfully tapped a finger on his knee while he turned Dean's words over in his mind. "Just how long do you think this whole dream thing took?"

Snorting, Dean chuckled, "Man, I don't know. I didn't even know it was morning yet. The last thing I remember before that dream was being prodded and poked at by some unsympathetic nurse Von Hilda in the middle of the night. That was hours ago."

The elder Winchester could see the wheels spinning in his brainiac brother's head and watched Sam's face as he worked through his thoughts.

"Hmm, well, I'm thinking that it's possible having that kind of connection for such an extended period of time might have caused your brain to overload – resulting in the pain, dizziness and nose bleed. It makes sense."

Sam looked up, realizing his slip about the dizziness. Dean didn't seem to notice so he quickly continued, saying, "A part of your brain that isn't accustomed to being used is getting overtaxed by all these signals. It's possible that it might've triggered some type of physical reaction in response to the link with the spirit. How do you feel now? Does your head still hurt?"

"Uh, not really."

Seeing Sam's jaw flex at the lie, he quickly looked away and decided on diversion.

Clearing his throat, Dean asked, "Did any of this happen when I…well, you know, the first couple of times this happened?"

Saying the actual words out loud was too hard. That would mean acknowledgement of what Sam had seen, had experienced during their connection…and Dean wasn't quite ready for that yet.

"Well, I don't know. Your nose never bled, but you did have a seizure after that first time. That's how they found out about the pineal gland."

Letting Dean absorb his words, Sam continued asking, "But, Dean, why would a ghost want to make contact with you? I mean, we need to know what she wants from you. What exactly did she say?"

Feeling distracted by his thumping head, aching chest and growing fatigue, Dean answered more sternly than he had intended.

"Look, we don't even know for sure that this was the same thing. Maybe it _was_ just a dream after all? Besides, she didn't really say anything – it was more like I could _sense_ her distress."

Then he pulled the trump card, rubbing at his eyes and grumping, "Dude, I'm really tired. Can we just save this for later? Please?" Dean stifled a big face splitting yawn for dramatic effect. He really was exhausted, he realized.

Sam didn't like the idea of some unknown ghost hijacking his brother's subconscious, but his brother really did look tired and his color still hadn't improved. Plus, he had said 'please'. Dean never said please unless he was really sincere, so Sam allowed the subject to drop for the time being.

"Okay, yeah – I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push and you're right, it could've been some random dream from your warped psyche."

Dean held Sam's eyes for emphasis, saying, "Thanks, man. Now, tell me, what was it that had you up at the crack of dawn in the first place? You come to warn me about the gelled eggs again?"

He was relieved that Sam hadn't pressed him for more answers. He didn't like the idea of some dead broad saying his brother's name and spooking through his mind. It was bad enough to know that Sam had been pilfering around his memories and thoughts, much less some stranger. At least, on some level, Sam had been invited.

"Actually, I couldn't sleep. So," Sam released the breath he'd been holding, "I decided to come down and see how you were doing."

Sam covertly hid the real reason for his early bird visit. While it had been nothing tangible, Sam had awakened to the sound of Dean's voice saying his name. He hadn't been sure if he'd really heard it, but he'd sensed that his brother _was_ searching for him and had arrived just as Dean's physical symptoms had come crashing down. The fact that his brother hadn't picked up on how he had known about the dizziness despite Dean having never mentioned it was a testament to his brother's condition.

Not wanting to upset him any further, Sam decided to keep that little tidbit to himself. He wondered if the elder Winchester's fledgling abilities would keep them bound to one another permanently. Now he knew how identical twins must feel and then some. Even now, Sam had a vague nudging at the back of his mind that he knew was Dean. The intimate bridge between him and his brother always seemed strongest when Dean was asleep or under stress, but Sam had begun to notice that he carried a constant vague awareness of his brother with himself at all times these days.

It wasn't as if he could actually hear Dean's thoughts or feel his emotions, but he could catch small impressions and glimpses now and then that he knew without a doubt was Dean. Eventually, Sam knew he would have to tell him, but for now it was his little secret. His brother had enough to worry about for the moment.

"How's the throat?" Sam asked.

Dean paused, taking stock of his throat's pain quota and then replied, "Still raw, but better."

Dean smothered another consuming yawn with his fist and fell silent. He couldn't remember ever feeling so weak and utterly worn before and it frightened him. But, he was determined not to go down without a fight. What use was he to Sam and their father if he couldn't even maintain a normal conversation without pooping out? Weakness was not an option for Dean Winchester and he felt betrayed by his body. He felt his eyes begin to droop against his will and it filled him with frustrated anger. Slamming his fist hard onto the bed, Dean shook his head and tried to force his body into conforming to his commands.

Sam flinched at his brother's unexpected outburst. Infusing his voice with calm, he soothed, "Look, Dean, just give it some time. Your body is still a long way from being healed. It's no biggie to me if you want to nod off. I brought a magazine down with me and I can just sit over here and read for a while. Just take it easy and give yourself a break."

Dean's respiratory therapist had given John and Sam a long list of possible long-term effects of ARDS, as well as a tip sheet on how to make Dean more comfortable once he was released from the hospital. Among other things, the doctor had told them that Dean could experience various symptoms such as fatigue, pain, weakness, poor appetite, depression, anxiety, and irritability for several more months. The list for cognitive and functional problems was nearly as long and included problems with balance, climbing stairs, driving, memory, concentration and attention. All this information served to remind Sam that his brother wasn't going to just hop out of bed and get his game on anytime soon.

Without realizing it, Sam had placed a comforting hand on Dean's wrist. Becoming awkwardly aware of the physical contact, Sam gave his brother a quick squeeze and broke the link by casually smoothing his hair back and giving a small yawn of his own. The fact that Dean hadn't made any caustic remarks about it or shrugged it off with mock aversion spoke volumes. Instead, he reacted to Sam's reassurances by pressing his head back onto his pillows and sighing as he closed his eyes.

Unable to force his leaden eyelids back open, Dean muttered drowsily, "Yeah, I know, but…I…hate this."

Sam waited for more, but the only other sound coming from his sibling was a deep, soft breathing that signaled Dean's surrender. Knowing the older man would never tolerate his gentle affection while awake, Sam took the stolen opportunity to reach over and smooth Dean's short hair back away from his forehead.

The younger Winchester thought his brother looked like crap. His face had thinned considerably and it continued to hold a pained grimace even as he slumbered peacefully. He was alarmed at how quickly Dean tired and became short of breath - and he cringed every time Dean's face twisted in ill-concealed agony or when a pained groan escaped from his lips. Sam longed to see some color decorate his brother's cheeks again and the spark of mischief dance merrily in his hazel eyes as it once had.

Then he heard his own words whispered back to him in Dean's voice, "Just give it some time, little brother, just give it some time."

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a/n: Due to having to rewrite much of this chapter and the holiday spent with my family, I did not have time to personally respond to all of your wonderful reviews. But, I want you to know that I read and cherished each one. Please keep 'em coming.**

**Special thanks to Mady Bay, Claire Kennedy and Eyelyo for looking this over for me. All mistakes are mine and don't hesitate to point them out for correcting. I added some stuff after my betas got done with it and so it is possible that you will find some.**


	11. Chapter 11: Back to Lawrence

Chapter 11: Back to Lawrence

Sam had just put the Impala in park when he looked up and saw Dean being wheeled out by one of the day shift nurses. He quickly hid an amused grin as he slid from the leather seat and hurried to open the passenger's side door. Dean's face was grim at best and his posture was stiff with unease at being pushed around by a girl half his size. He tolerated it only because they'd been adamant about it and wouldn't let him leave otherwise.

John was already in Lawrence with all of their belongings, save the Impala, and both he and Missouri were expecting the boys to arrive in time for dinner that night. Sam, however, had chosen to stay in a ratty motel room near the hospital – refusing to leave Dean's side for a moment save for the occasional shower and change of clothes.

He'd been adamant about spending as much time as possible with his brother – which was pretty much all day and all night if you didn't count the period of time Dean spent in therapy or sleeping. And, even when Dean was asleep, Sam was usually right by his side hunkered down in a too small chair that left his butt numb and his back achy. Dean had stubbornly protested, of course, saying Sam should go on ahead to Missouri's. Naturally, Sam had been just as stubborn, refusing to go and pointing out that Dean was in no condition to make him.

By now, all that remained of Sam's injuries was a Band-Aid along his hairline and the bulky, blue leg brace. He had rid himself of the crutches a day or so ago and now relied on a cane to help him maneuver with the cumbersome walking cast. He'd been assured by his doctor that this last bit of hardware was due to come off in a couple of weeks. Sam couldn't wait.

He knew he probably shouldn't be driving just yet, but he'd been determined to be the one taking Dean home in his newly restored Impala. Before today, he had restricted himself to taxis and it felt good to sit in the familiar Chevy once again.

After hurriedly opening the car door, Sam turned back to Dean and the nurse, anticipating his older sibling's need for support from the chair to the car. This time when Sam, cane tucked under one arm, slid one strong capable hand under Dean's elbow and placed the other around his shoulders, Dean didn't jerk away or protest like he had in Nebraska. As much as he hated it, the elder Winchester had rather shift his weight onto his baby brother than allow the petite nurse to shoulder it.

Dean winced at the jabbing pain that sliced through his chest and abdomen anytime he was required to move into a new position. If Sam noticed his sharp intake of breath or the way his hands shook with the effort of the movement, he made no indication of it. The older man was grateful. Awkwardly, Dean shifted from his brother's grip into the car seat and sat back with a relieved sigh. The car's vents were blowing heated air onto his frozen feet and he groaned deep sounds of contentment.

The mid November weather had long since turned bone-chillingly sharp, with today having the added benefit of being overcast and solemn looking. It was a perfect match to Dean's current mood. The air smacked of a pungent, earthy odor and he knew that the sky would soon open up and spill fresh rainwater down onto the earth below. He was extremely grateful that it had at stayed its watery release long enough for him to get into the car unscathed by its icy touch.

No sooner than Sam had thanked the nurse and taken shelter within the car, did the fat raindrops start splashing softly across the windshield and hood of the Impala. There, they joined into fatter drops, absorbing into each other until they grew too heavy to resist gravity and slipped down the sides of the metallic surface to the pavement below.

Too wretched and weary to put on his well-practiced air of complacency, Dean let loose another hefty sigh. The sudden release of breath provoked a round of coughing and gagging that had become a daily part of Dean's existence thanks to the ARDS that had ravaged his body. His coughing fit finally spent, Dean closed his heavy eyes and allowed his body to soak up the comforting warmth spilling out from the heater's vents.

He never seemed to feel any true warmth deep in his bones like he should, but he did his best to hide the incessant shivering that plagued him. Apparently it wasn't enough because, suddenly, he felt his little brother's concerned eyes on him as they pulled to stop at an intersection. Somehow, he just knew the look and what was behind it.

Not bothering to open his eyes, Dean responded with a gruff, "I'm fine, Sam." And then when the stare continued to linger, he tried, "Dude, take a picture. It'll last longer."

Sam quickly snapped his eyes back up to the traffic light, watching for the green glow that would grant them passage to the road home. Shaking his head at his brother's intuition and he eased the newly repaired Chevy onto the busy highway and hit the accelerator.

The scrap-squeak of the windshield wipers intermittently broke up the heavy silence as they batted away the falling rain. In the quietness, Sam watched from the corner of his eye as Dean softly stroked the leather seats as if meeting an old and dear friend after a long overdue absence. The repairs to Dean's baby had been extensive and had cost a lofty price, but were obviously well worth it. Not for the first time, Sam mentally thanked God that the trucking company had picked up the tab.

The Winchester boys sat locked in their own private thoughts for several more minutes, hearing only the rumble of the Impala and the wet sound of the water as it was flung away by the tires burning up the road beneath them. Once Sam eased them comfortably into the interstate lane, he ventured a quick glance over at his brother. Sam swallowed a couple of times before daring to speak; he didn't want Dean to hear the fear and uncertainty that hadn't ceased over the long weeks of his brother's healing.

Dean had regained enough of his strength to walk short distances with a little help, though he was still prone to lose his breath at such times and wince with each step. Especially troublesome was the wracking pain that ripped through his chest when the coughing fits came. Often he would become light headed and would have to stop for a minute to allow the vertigo to ease before continuing on. The doctors all seemed pretty pleased with his progress to date, but Sam felt uneasy about it all – his vague connection with his brother told him something wasn't quite right – and he was worried.

Seeing Dean looking much too thin and pallid was more than enough cause for concern, but the niggling in the back of his mind only made matters worse. Of course, when Dean knew Sam was watching in that wary, distraught way of his, he would automatically straighten himself and focus on keeping his breaths and facial expressions as even and normal as possible.

On more than one occasion serious words had been flung back and forth during Dean's mealtime because Sam had insisted that his brother eat just one more bite – Dean had insisted that Sam just shut up. Nonplussed, Sam was relentless in his quest to guide his ailing brother toward good health, to the point of being a royal pain in Dean's behind.

Dean felt like he had gone above and beyond his call of duty to be understanding and patient – all qualities of good big brothers. However, Dean's temperament was sour today and he was in no mood to be pestered or coddled into placating Sam's good intentions. This is why the elder man's body went rigid with dread as he heard Sam clear his throat one last time before finally speaking.

Staring straight ahead and evoking a casual tone, Sam asked, "So, is it warm enough in here? 'Cause I could turn the heater up a little…and, I, uh, brought a blanket with me in case you might need it."

Gritting his teeth, Dean was determined to show Sam just how fine he was – despite the fact that deep down inside, he really would've liked to have the blanket. Instead, he popped one eye open and braced his voice with big brother authority, saying, "Are you kidding me? It's hot as hell in here. Are you sure _you're_ not coming down with something, Sammy?"

Sam snorted his incredulous response. He'd just witnessed his brother's covert attempts to pull his leather jacket a little tighter around his body only seconds earlier. His voice brimming with irritation mixed with resignation, Sam replied, "Okay, have it your way, Dean. Just don't blame me when your teeth start chattering again and you ruin your big, tough show of bravado by going all Blue Man on me."

"Yeah, whatever, dude," Dean replied, as he shifted sideways toward Sam with a another pained grunt and settled more fully into the leather seat, unconsciously wrapping his arms around himself in blatant betrayal of his own words. Both eyes clamped shut, Dean feigned sleep – ending the discussion before it'd hardly started.

Soon thereafter, the silence was broken by Dean's soft breaths, alerting Sam that his big brother had, indeed, fallen asleep. Reaching into the back seat, never taking his eyes off the road, Sam retrieved the said blanket and fluffed it out with a shake before one-handedly covering his brother's tremor ridden body. Scoffing under his breath, Sam said, "Big, stubborn jerk. I knew you were cold."

oooOOOooo

The big, stubborn jerk never heard Sam's soft spoken words. Instead, he found himself captured by nightmares; returned to that fearful night a month ago. He could feel himself pinned against the rough, weathered wood of the cabin's wall, just like before. He could feel the intangible bonds holding him stiffly in place. His dad – no, the demon – stood in front of him, taunting him with his innermost fears.

"They don't need you. Not like you need them," came the growl of the demon wrapped in John Winchester's skin.

Dean could feel the hatred laced with panic clench his heart and squeeze until he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, only feel. He tried to rationalize that it was just the demon playing its deceptive games, but somewhere inside he could feel every barb punch through the armor that he had arduously built to protect himself.

"Sam is clearly John's favorite. Even when they fight, it's more concern than he's ever shown you"

For a fleeting moment, Dean forgot about the demon. He could only see the truth in the statement, the truth about his father's feelings toward him. _Dad never worried over me like that, not like Sam. He drove Sam away with his fear of what would happen to him alone at college, but didn't even blink when he sent me out on solo hunts, or again when he just up and left me._ Abruptly the fury fueled by the hurt rushed through Dean's veins, filling him with cold rage.

Anger burned wildly in his heart and mind; anger at his father for leaving him, anger at this demon for parading his deepest fears under the nose of his family, but mostly, anger at himself for letting it all happen. The violent emotion took away any desire for self preservation. He heard the venomous words leave his lips, knowing – wanting – what would come next.

But, instead of the demon's slashing and tearing of flesh, his dad's eyes unexpectedly returned to their normal shade of brown. Reflected within the coffee colored depths was repugnance and disgust. His father was ashamed of him, revolted by him _and_ his self-pity. Instantly, all of the anger drained away, leaving behind nothing but disgrace and rejection in its wake.

Then, John spoke, his words ripping Dean's heart out just as surely as the demon had. Unflinchingly, boring into his son's fearful eyes, he growled, "How _could_ you, Dean? How could you allow yourself to be played like that? You put Sam in reach of the demon. You delivered the Colt right into its hands. This is _your_ fault. Your fault and yours alone."

"And now you stand here in front of me feeling sorry for yourself? You make me sick. You're no son of mine. You deserve to die. Do you hear me, Dean? You _deserve _to die, you weak pitiful shell of a man. I thought I'd raised you to be tough, impenetrable to such nonsense. I'm going to _let_ this demon put you out of your misery. Out of _our _misery."

The velvety brown was replaced by the glistening gold once more, and a menacing look of glee transformed his dad's features. "This makes it so much more worth the wait, having daddy's approval to shred your sorry self into bits."

"No, please," Dean begged just before the obliterating pain stole his breath away. "No," Dean pleaded in between the clawing and gauging of flesh, all the while loathing the sound of defeat and brokenness in his voice.

The demon continued to slash at his chest and abdomen just like before, eliciting more yelps of suffering from its victim. Then it purred, "After I'm done with you, I'm going to make Sam my willing puppet. By the time I'm finished with him, he'll spit on your dead body and gladly follow me."

"No!" Dean howled, the terror erupting from the very fiber of his being. _No, not Sam – take me, but please leave Sam alone. _Desperation burst forth, flooding all of his senses –the impact propelling him from the dream with a yell.

oooOOOooo

Not wanting to disturb his sleeping brother, Sam had opted to leave the radio off – which gave him long minutes to be lost in thought as the hospital became a distant memory. Dean had been asleep for about an hour and a half when Sam heard a soft whimper coming from him. Muffled cries were followed by a hand twitch and then a jerk of his left leg. Then the whimper turned into a barely audible, but strained, "No. Please…no," as his brother's head began swinging back and forth, his face fearfully contorted.

The sweat that Sam failed to notice earlier was streaming down Dean's face, running down his throat and onto his chest. Alarmed, Sam began peering at him as often as he dared to let his eyes leave the road.

Sam was about to lay a consoling hand on his brother's shoulder when Dean jerked bolt upright, eyes frenzied and horror filled, screaming, "No!"

Watching Dean blink dazedly, trying to gather his bearings, Sam asked, "Hey…are you all right?"

The brief flashes of pure emotion coming from the elder man had been frightening and visceral, but Sam didn't want Dean shutting down on him, so he stayed calm and let him take his time. He continued to watch guardedly as his brother slowly relaxed back onto the seat, trying to blink reality back into his head. His breathing seemed to ease as he remembered where he was, that he'd been dreaming. Reaching up – favoring the deepest wounds on his left side – Dean rubbed his hands across his face and through his short hair.

Wiping his sweat-wetted hands on his jeans, he hoarsely responded, "Just dreaming about hospital food again."

A smirk flitted across Dean's features, but the small smile did nothing to hide the several shades of pale that had been bleached into his countenance.

Sam rolled his eyes and answered back, "Right. Speaking of food, are you hungry? We could stop at the next town and get something to go?" Sam really hoped Dean would say yes.

Glancing briefly at his brother before settling back into his comfortable nest, Dean replied, "Naw, I'm not hungry. But go ahead and get something for yourself. Don't skip lunch on my account."

"Dean," Sam implored, "you need to eat something. You hardly touched breakfast at all. Please."

The thought of food at that particular moment made Dean's stomach want to turn inside out. The dream had left him feeling shaky and ill. "Really, Sam, I just wanna sleep. Besides, I'd hate to ruin my newly done leather interior with stomach contents."

Again Dean tried to smirk, infusing his voice with his characteristic humor, but not quite getting there.

Concern gnarled inside the younger man as he asked, "Okay. How about something to drink, then? Maybe a soda will help settle your stomach?"

Exhaling gustily, Dean knew Sam would persist until he gave in to some degree. Brotherly patience transforming his voice, Dean said, "Yeah, okay, Sammy. Can you make it a coffee, though, I'd like something hot." _Something to warm up my frozen insides._

Giving his brother a sideways glance, Sam remarked, "Dean, I really don't think coffee would do your stomach any good. I'll get you a Sprite and then we can turn up the heater."

"Sure, whatever, dude. But, I'd rather have the coffee," Dean answered, somewhat annoyed, before ending the conversation by closing his eyes once again.

Wanting to say more, but afraid to ruffle his brother's feathers any further, Sam hesitantly asked, "Hey, Dean?"

"Mmm?" was all Dean offered, eyes still closed.

"You know you can talk to me, right? I want to help."

Sam could see the vestiges of his brother's dream in the way Dean's hands trembled as they rested against his thighs.

"Yeah, I know," came Dean's unsteady reply.

The elder man continued to pretend like all he wanted to do was go back to sleep, but in reality, he had no desire to risk any more nightmares. He just needed a few minutes to gather himself, to shake off the effects of the dream. Plus, his head was pounding rhythmically, forcing him to keep his eyes shut and his head down.

"Look. I know you're holding something back. Please, I really want to know. Dean? Did you hear me?" Sam spared a quick peek at the top of his brother's bowed head, waiting for a response.

"Yeah, yeah. I heard," Dean's voice cut in, giving up all attempts to appear asleep. Raising his head just barely, Dean considered his words before responding, "Remember when you once told me that sometimes you just need to keep some things to yourself?" He waited for his brother to get the drift.

"Yes, I remember. But-" Sam began.

"But," Dean interrupted, "there are some things _I_ need to keep to myself, Sam. And this is one of them." Dean's tone left little room for argument.

"Okay, but just remember that I'm here if you want to talk."

Dean dipped his head in acknowledgment and went back to his former resting position. Not knowing what else to say, and sensing his brother wasn't into chit chat for the time being, Sam went back to driving in silence. Twelve minutes in, he couldn't stand it anymore and reached over to flick on the radio. Adjusting the volume down, Sam tuned in some random radio station he knew Dean would love, and let the music fill the void between them.

Eventually the other man relaxed and sleep overtook him despite his best efforts to fight it off. This time, though, there were no nightmares – just ordinary dreams. It wasn't long before Sam was pulling up next to the two-story building, getting as close as possible to the old, cracked concrete porch. He grinned and waved at the older woman as she came out the door to meet them.

Turning toward Dean, Sam reached over and gently shook his brother's knee, calling, "Dean? Hey, there sleeping beauty, we're here."

Dean's eyes fluttered open and he began struggling to untangle himself from the blanket, grimacing at the Disney reference. Missouri was just coming down the front porch steps as Sam pushed open his door with a loud squeak and limped over to Dean's side to help him out.

"Hello, boys," came Missouri's familiar welcome. "Here, let me help you," she called out as she, too, hurried over to Dean's now wide open door.

Bending over, Sam grabbed Dean's upper arms and carefully helped him to a standing position. Then, placing his hand under Dean's elbow and grabbing his cane from its resting spot against the Impala, he helped his brother take deliberate, short steps toward the house. Behind them, Missouri pushed the car door shut and then took Dean's free arm, firmly placing herself as near the young man as was possible.

They took the stairs one step at a time, stopping a second before taking the next step – letting Dean set the pace. Each new step up caused a soft hiss to slip past Dean's lips, though he was trying valiantly to keep them in check by holding his bottom lip firmly between his teeth. Everyone was coated in a thin sheen of sweat by the time they made it to the front door. Dean, from the effort it took to climb the stairs and the other two from the draining patience it took not to rush him.

Missouri opened the door, allowing Sam to painstakingly guide his brother toward the nearest piece of furniture. Letting go of Sam, Dean eased himself onto the couch with a grunt. Resting his head on the back of the couch, he closed his eyes and steadied his breathing, which was now coming in shallow gasps. Seconds later, Dean felt the couch give a little as Sam, too, plunked down on the soft folds of the sofa.

Giving them both a moment to recover, Missouri bustled into the kitchen and set about fixing three glasses of fresh lemonade along with bologna and mustard sandwiches. She knew instinctively that Dean wasn't up to heavy foods just now and that poor Sam was starving for anything. She added some cheese to Sam's sandwiches and placed some crackers on both plates figuring maybe Dean would at least nibble at the crackers if he refused the sandwich.

Coming back into the living room with the tray of goodies, she set it down on the coffee table just in front of the boys' knees. Gratefully, Sam reached for the food as Dean eyed it warily, wondering if he dared give it a try. Breaking the silence, Sam asked, "So, where's Dad?"

"He's upstairs takin' a snooze," Missouri answered cheerfully. "We didn't expect you to come so soon. I promised him I would wake him as soon as you got here, but I think I'll just let that sleepin' dog lie, for now. Dean, honey, aren't you gonna eat?"

Flicking his gaze quickly from the sandwich to Missouri's face, he stammered, "Uh, I'm not really hungry right now."

"Now don't hurt my feelings, boy. You can at least eat those crackers," Missouri preached. Her voice sounded gruff and chiding, but that was only because she was trying so hard to hide her feelings of worry. She knew all too well that he hadn't been eating well and that something had the boy spooked. She could also feel the concern radiating off Sam like heat from sun-blistered concrete in the hottest part of summer.

Grimacing, Dean leaned forward to snag a cracker only to be intercepted by a faster moving Sam who snatched the plate and placed it on the couch in between them. Raising one inquisitive eyebrow, Dean smirked, "Impatient, much?"

Looking back at the elder Winchester, Sam sheepishly replied from around a mouthful of sandwich, a few crumbs spraying out with the words, "Sorry, just tryin' to be helpful."

Ignoring the exchange between the brothers, Missouri popped up out of her seat and shuffled out of the room muttering, "Land of the livin', where're my manners?"

Exchanging quizzical looks with each other, the boys shrugged before resuming their munching and chewing. A minute later their silent question was answered as Missouri came back into the room, setting up a TV tray where Dean could easily access his food and drink. After assembling the items on the tray, she reseated herself across from the boys in her favorite rocker.

"After you fellas have finished eating, I've got your room ready for you to take a nice long rest. I put the two of you in the same room here on the first floor so neither of you'll have to climb up and down the stairs. Also, the guest bathroom's just across from your room, which'll make those midnight runs to the restroom a little easier for ya."

Casting a look toward the stairs and nodding, she continued, "My room and your daddy's room are on the second floor. With your daddy still in his cast, I hated to put him through the trouble, but there was only enough space down here for two. Besides, it'll serve him right havin' to work those crutches up and down the stairs. Draggin' his boys into such a mess, he could use a good thumpin' on his hard head. He's just lucky he got that arm freed up so he could use those crutches."

Voice muffled with the thickness of the dissolving crackers, Dean muttered, "Don't blame Dad, it's my fault. Should've been more careful."

Stunned by this confession, Sam stopped mid bite to stare at his brother while he processed Dean's words. Sam was preparing to argue his brother's misplaced self recriminations when Missouri beat him to it. Her voice took on a shrill pitch as she said, "Boy, what are you talkin' about? Those hospital drugs must be messin' with your mind for you to believe that either one of you boys could possibly be at fault for any of this. You boys were just doin' the best you could with a bad situation."

"Dean, look at me." Missouri paused her tirade until she knew she had Dean's complete attention. Looking him directly in the eye, she affirmed, "Honey, you're _not_ to blame for any of this. None of it, you hear me? You may be at fault for a lot of things, but not for this. I don't ever want to hear you talk that way again, you understand me?"

Dean could only stare helplessly back at the spunky woman. He knew if he tried to talk, he might lose it right then and there. Missouri's unwavering belief in him was genuine and complete and oh, so needed. The young man just nodded his head and blinked back any wetness that might've been glistening in the green whirlpool of his eyes. But, not before Missouri and Sam both had registered its existence. Sam quickly closed his gaping mouth and went back to eating as if nothing at all had happened.

Not losing a beat, Missouri picked the conversation right back up from there and continued to explain where everything could be found in the house, giving a detailed list of what she expected from them while they stayed with her. The list included meal times and what to do when she unavoidably had company. She'd cut back her usual work schedule to only three clients a day since John had arrived and felt it was best to continue with the routine as it was. That, she had explained, would give her plenty of time to see to their needs and also give them time to come into the living room to relax around the TV, or whatever they wanted to do.

By the time she was finished with her instructions, the boys had finished their meager meal and were looking drowsily content. Missouri shooed both of them to their room for a nap, complaining the whole way that the fatigue vibrating off of them was too stifling for someone of her vigor. Both boys were able to rest undisturbed by nurses or bad nightmares and were feeling somewhat refreshed by dinner time.

Both Missouri and Sam tried to persuade Dean to be served in bed, primarily because walking seemed to aggravate his coughing, but he would have none of it, preferring to be led carefully on still wobbly legs to the kitchen table where his dad was waiting. As soon as Sam and Missouri helped Dean through the doorway, John's chocolate eyes lifted to his eldest son's face, evaluating and seeking something from him.

Inwardly, Dean felt himself flinch under his father's skillful assessment, afraid that he would see the same disgusted rejection in this John's eyes as was in dream John's eyes. Still stinging from the guilt and malefaction of the nightmare, Dean felt his cheeks burn and he was unable to meet his father's gaze for the first time in his life. He pretended to be distracted by Missouri's aid and Sam's clumsy gait, letting his eyes fall away from his father's penetrating stare. Missouri's appraisal darted back and forth between the two men, confused by Dean's sudden withdrawal into himself and the hint of self-loathing she'd glimpsed when he came before John. All she could sense from John was that the man was incredibly grateful to see his two sons again and was oblivious to Dean's altered mood change.

Shaking her head helplessly, she remembered again how blind John was when it came to his boys. Especially when it came to Dean. She guessed it must come from the fact that John and Dean were different. Dean had inherited most of his personality, perceptions and other qualities from his mother. But that only partly explained the enormous chasm between what John saw in his son and what really lay behind the carefully contrived wall that Dean had long ago built around himself.

Everyone had always assumed that Sam was the sensitive one, but really, he was just better at showing his emotions – thanks in no small part to Dean's protective upbringing. No, Sam was more like his father in some respects. Very intellectual and objective, Sam saw the world as a puzzle to be solved. Sometimes he was so busy trying to learn every new thing he could, that he sometimes forgot to take a deeper look at what was going on with those around him.

Sam did have a big heart, just like Dean, but Sam allowed himself to be distracted by his insatiable need to understand everything under the sun. He was also good at seeing things from a logical, impersonal, almost aloof perspective. Whereas Dean just accepted what was and placed the highest value on those he called family, seeing his _own_ worth as a direct reflection of his loved ones.

Missouri guessed that Sam still retained that ability to question and ask why because Dean had buffered his little brother from their dad's revenge consumed ways. It was sad that the Sam wasn't in college where he belonged, or that Dean wasn't making a family of his own to love. However, she was glad that Sam was there for his brother and vice versa. Dean needed Sam more than the world did for the here and now and Sam would always need his big brother around, sharing his life. There was always time for _both_ of them to carve out a special place to be true to themselves later, when this was all over.

Lightly, she patted Dean's hand as he sat down, catching his eye and briefly giving him a wink. Then they all began passing the bowls of food around the table, much like a real family would. She could feel both boys relaxing and starting to enjoy themselves a little more as each minute passed. Dean seemed to let go of whatever had caused his earlier lapse into the darker parts of his mind and Sam seemed to be conspicuously aware of that and relaxed along with him.

The boys sent each other inside looks and smirks when Missouri really did whack John with a wooden spoon after he made some ill thought out joke at her expense. Seeing their father reined in by the small woman with the gentle, little-girl voice was nearly enough to send them over the edge with laughter. It was the first time in a very long time that the Winchester family had sat around a dinner table like this and shared a meal sprinkled with hearty mirth. And it felt so good, so right to them, that they never wanted it to come to an end.

Unfortunately, time ceases for no one and bedtime snuck up on them quickly. Despite having had naps, the men where still recovering from their injuries and were all ready for bed by 9:30 that night. John had actually dozed off a few times seated comfortably in the hunter green rocking recliner. Sam stifled a face splitting yawn, but waited on Dean before giving up and heading for bed himself.

Dean fought with all his might to draw out the moment with his family as long as he possibly could, but was losing the battle and found his eyes heavy with fatigue. Finally, he gave in after Sam jokingly remarked that he was in no condition himself to pack his brother's sorry butt to bed like a puny, little kid.

Reluctantly, they all said their good nights and disappeared behind their bedroom doors. Missouri helped Sam tuck Dean into his full-sized bed and then waited for Sam to get into his twin before asking if they needed extra blankets or pillows. Kissing both boys goodnight on the forehead (causing Dean's face to color and Sam to chuckle at his brother's discomfiture), she took the water glass she'd brought for Dean's meds, and set it on the bedside table before flicking out the light.

Exhausted, full, and content, the brothers quickly fell into the waiting arms of the sandman, happy as they had ever been in the last twenty some years. Too bad it couldn't have been that easy for either of them. A peaceful rest in a quiet home was long overdue for both Winchester men, but as Dean once again entered into the frightening realm of terror and torment, it was not to last for long. The big question they would find themselves asking later would not be the why of the impending dream, but whether or not the dream was really just a dream after all.

TBC

* * *

**a/n: Wow, this was a long one. I apologize in advance because I know I needed to condense a lot of the introspection, but there just didn't seem to be time...sorry. Special thanks for those who sent extra input on the questions I sent you and as always, I appreciate everyone's review even if real life prevents me from responding personally to each one. **

**As always, you can thank my beta readers, Mady Bay and Claire Kennedy for their diligence in spotting errors and making suggestions for improvement. Thanks, ladies, you do great work.**

**Also, I made some changes after it was betaed, so feel free to point them out if you spot one.**


	12. Chapter 12: Strip My Mind

Chapter 12: Strip My Mind

He was having that dream again. That same harrowing dream of Evil in John's skin. Plunged backward in time, he found himself face to face with the ceiling demon, its eerily shining eyes penetrating past the façade and straight into the farthest corners of Dean's mind where he kept all things hidden. Dean heard the taunting words for the third time, "They don't need you. Not like you need them. Sam is clearly John's favorite. Even when they fight, it's more concern than he's ever shown you."

Dean felt the words hit dead center like a punch to the gut – just as they'd been meant to. Squeezing his eyes shut against the ugly memory, he waited for what would come next. The demon's eyes morphed back into John's familiar brown orbs as he said, _"_How _could_ you, Dean? How could you be so _weak_? Endangering Sam, endangering this mission. You practically handed the Colt over gift-wrapped. This is _your_ fault. Just like it was your fault those children had their lives stolen by the Shtriga. Just like it was your fault that Max killed himself. Everyone knows you don't take a loaded gun into the presence of a TK. And we won't even get into Marshall Hall or Layla Rourke."

The image of his father leaned in closer, coldly whispering, "And Sam? He blames you for Jessica. But then, you already knew that, right? It's no wonder he wanted to blow your head off. Now you stand here daring to feel sorry for yourself? You make me _sick_. You're no son of mine. You deserve to die. Do you hear me, Dean?" John was mere inches from Dean's face now, savagely sneering, "You. _Deserve._ To. Die. I'm going to _let_ this demon put you out of your misery. Out of _our _misery."

Dean braced himself for the ripping and gouging, wanting it to come and erase his internal sorrow…but it never came. Instead, John's eyes shuttered briefly then opened once more, the glittering yellow back, and suddenly Dean's body burst into flames. The fiery tongues licked and danced all around him, blasting away all the moisture contained within, charring his bones. The excruciating pain was scorching as it soaked up his blood, sweat and tears.

All Dean could do was howl with exquisite pain while trying to twist his body loose from the horror. _So, this is what it feels like to be burned alive_, his shocked mind thought. Prying his eyes open, he found himself staring _down_ at the smirking, sadistically pleased demon as it relished his every torment.

Dean knew he was pinned to the ceiling, completely immobilized, living his mother's and countless other victims' death. His mind could not comprehend the searing agony and grief that washed over him, drowning out his terrifying screams. The walls he had so carefully erected over the last 27 years began to fracture, straining under the pressure of his suffering – his careful control as tenuous as his hold on sanity. _How much more can I bear?_ some small part of him wondered.

ooooOOOOoooo

"NOOO!" Dean yelled, grappling against the arms clamping down on his. "NO!" the sound was torn from his heaving lungs in desperation. The arms refused to let go, continuing to gently shake him over and over until he woke enough to make out Sam's petrified expression in front of him.

Illuminated by the silvery moonlight, Dean's vision examined and certified that it was indeed Sam, his brother. The terror and panic in Sam's face hardly had time to register before his little brother's voice assaulted his ears.

"Dean! Dean! Hey, man, answer me! What's wrong?" the words echoed in his ears just before a flood of instant light caused both men to shrink back, blinking rapidly with the effort to shut it back out.

Rushing in from the doorway was an equally freaked out Missouri who'd been awakened by the force of the dream before the screaming began. Her voice tight and fearful, she demanded, "Dean, honey, what in the world!"

The words scarcely sounded before Dean pitched backward out of Sam's loosened grip, his body wracked by frightening convulsions. Sam shot a quick look toward Missouri, his wide eyes round with fear and surprise.

Sam's limited training kicked in, then, as he ordered Missouri to help him get Dean onto the floor at the end of the beds where there was the most room. Sam rolled his brother onto his side to keep him from choking in case he vomited during the seizure – leaving a hand on his back and the other under his neck, holding his head off the floor.

Sam shouted, "I don't think he's breathing – he's not breathing!" His vision was focused on Dean's blue-tinged skin, but his senses were groping for reassurance from the woman seated on the floor across from him.

Missouri soothed, "It's gonna be all right, Sam. Stay calm. It'll be over soon." She carefully checked the digital clock on the bedside table to keep track of the convulsion's length.

One full minute after the rocking tremors began, Dean's body finally became quiet and still. A single tear escaped from each eye and his pallor was tinged with a fevered flush. Trembling, Sam checked his pulse and breathing. Still shaken, his quaking voice confirmed, "He's breathing again and his pulse is fast, but steady."

ooooOOOOoooo

Upstairs, the shouts and yells had propelled John Winchester out of his warm bed as quickly as his cast would allow. Stumbling around the dark, feeling for his crutches, he tripped over them on the floor next to his bed. After righting himself, he made for the stairs as quickly as he could, precariously hobbling down – his heart hammering loudly against his ribs. By the time he reached the doorway of the boys' room, it was all over. Sam and Missouri were hunkered down at the end of the beds and Dean was lying on the floor, slight head movements indicating that he was just regaining consciousness.

Coming up behind Missouri, John demanded, "What's going on?"

Sam glanced uncertainly between his father and Missouri. Returning his attention to Dean, Sam answered, "I-I don't really know. He had a seizure, I think."

Before John could intervene with more questions, Missouri leaned over Dean, tenderly smoothing his hair back, crooning, "Dean, can you hear me? Sweetie, open your eyes and look at me."

Dean moaned softly and blinked once, twice and then a third time before opening his bleary eyes and focusing on first Sam's and then Missouri's face. Confusion etched his features in a caricature of emotion as he managed to mumble, "What ha-happened?"

Missouri answered, "You had a seizure, Dean. How're you feeling?"

Noticing a bloody wetness oozing from Dean's nose, Sam jumped up and grabbed a tissue from the box beside their beds and stuffed it into Dean's shaky hand. Sam then guided Dean's arm up to press the thin paper to his nose as he tilted his head backward.

"I…I don't know. I'm…weak and…"

His garbled speech drifted off, unfinished as rasping coughs took his breath away. Once the coughs eased, Dean shrugged and seemed confused about what he'd been saying. He was obviously having a hard time collecting his muddled thoughts and making sense of them.

"Its okay, baby. Take your time. Sam, help me get your brother back on the bed," Missouri ordered, as she placed her arms under Dean's cotton clothed legs – grateful the boy had worn a t-shirt and sweats to bed.

John stood back out of their way and watched, his sleep-laden brain not quite comprehending the scene playing out in front of him. Finding his voice, John asked, "Seizure? Are you sure? I heard yelling."

Easing Dean back into bed, Sam took a place on one side of Dean as Missouri took the other. Seeing the heated flush through the sweat-coated sheen on his brother's skin, Sam pressed a hand on Dean's brow then looked up at the others.

"He's burning up. Feel him."

Frustration and fear made John's voice exasperated as he yelled, "Damn it! Somebody answer me!"

"Dad, just take it easy," Sam began, eyes pleading. "We don't know any more than you do. He woke up from having a nightmare and then this."

Ignoring John altogether, Missouri lifted the back of her hand to Dean's cheek, then quickly left the room before coming back with a mercury style thermometer.

"Okay, Dean, let me take your temperature, see what we're dealing with. Open up."

Dean moved to bat the cold instrument away, but Missouri was insistent, placing glass thermometer under his tongue. "Good, now try to hold it in place until I tell you when."

John seated himself on the end of the bed and turned at the waist to watch Dean blink in confusion, too weak to disobey the orders given to him.

Waiting for the obligatory three minutes to pass, Sam tried to distract himself by asking, "Think we should take him to the hospital or call his doctor?"

Immediately, Dean struggled to sit up, plainly upset by the suggestion. Sam lightly pressed back on Dean's shoulders to keep him still.

"Dean, lay still. Just try to relax," Sam said, surprised at how little resistance met his bracing hold.

"No. No way am I going back there. And no doctors, either," Dean barked fiercely, ejecting the thermometer from his mouth.

Then, before it could be poked back in, he hoarsely begged, hands up as if to ward off some kind of terrible unpleasantness – the tissue sill tightly clutched in the one, "Please, I'll be fine, I-I'm fine. Dad?" His cracked voice and stumbling hesitation at the words implied otherwise.

John responded to Dean, taking his son's recognition of his presence as a good sign, "It's okay, Son. Nobody's taking you anywhere. Just relax and let us take your temperature."

Shooting John a reprimand in the form of a glare, Missouri placed the thermometer back in Dean's mouth, and answered, "Let's wait and see what his temperature is first. I don't think we need to rush into anything, though, the seizure was probably a result of his recent bump on the noggin'."

Patting Dean on the leg and noting the heat rolling off of him, she echoed John's earlier question, asking Sam, "What _was_ going on down here? I could hear your brother screamin' bloody murder all the way up to my room, followed by your hysterical yellin'. If I hadn't already been awake, I'd have come clean out of my skin."

Sam wearily rubbed his stinging eyes and then paused to pinch the bridge of his nose, wading through the mire of thoughts assaulting his brain. "Um, well. Something woke me up. I'm not sure what it was, but I could hear Dean murmuring in his sleep. So, I sat up and, uh, Dean was thrashing around and kicking at the covers. When I came over to check on him, he bolted upright and started screaming, trembling all over. Shortly after that, you flipped the light on…and you know the rest." Sam blinked a couple of times, making sure he wasn't still sleeping himself.

"Do you think Dean's restlessness woke you up first? Or did you _sense _something?" Seeing his shrugging answer, Missouri asked, "Are you sure, Sam, think carefully before you answer."

Puzzled by her comment and insinuation, Sam began to go back through the whole thing again, carefully sifting through each memory for clues he'd possibly missed. But, before he could get his hazy mind to cooperate, Missouri was removing the thermometer from Dean's mouth and clucking her tongue.

"Mmm, mmm," she started, "You've got a raging one hundred and four point six degrees."

Tossing the bloodied tissue aside, Dean crinkled his sweaty brow, weakly asking, "Is that hospital bad?"

"Well," she answered, "it's not even close to good, but I don't think that a trip to the emergency room is warranted – yet. But, we'll have to keep a close eye on it. Your seizure was probably the result of your concussion, but a call to the doc wouldn't hurt. First, though, we'll work on getting that fever down."

"Great, just freakin' great," Dean grumbled, as he closed his eyes momentarily and let his head roll to one side. The last thing he wanted at that point was people touching him, looking at him, _seeing_ him, wearing away at his last reserves.

"Dean-" his father started to growl, stopping short at Missouri's upheld hand, indicating she could handle herself.

Missouri warned, "I can feel your pain, Dean, but don't take that tone with me. We aren't your enemy. You should be so lucky to have people to worry over you."

Feeling the intended stab of remorse, Dean averted his gaze and tiredly murmured, "Sorry."

"Darn right, you're sorry. You gave us quite a fright, young man. Mind sharing what all of the hullabaloo is about?" Then, as an aside, she called over to Sam, "Be a dear and fetch some water for his painkillers. They'll help him sleep and will reduce his fever at the same time."

As Sam strode out of the room in search of water, he half expected to hear Dean quip, "_Uh, hello…I'm right here. It does have ears and sometimes a brain between them that actually functions_." But hearing nothing but his brother's dead silence caused a shiver of dread to wind down his spine.

Dean's lack of response at being touched and fussed over was alarming. He seemed dazed, which was expected under the circumstances, but it was more than just the physical reaction that was bothering Sam.

Walking back into the room with a tall glass of water and a wetted washcloth, Sam placed the water on the table and rolled up the rag in a thin layer sized to fit Dean's forehead. He then set about opening the medicine bottle. He immediately placed two enormous, oblong pills in Dean's upturned palm.

Sitting on the bed, Sam helped his sibling rise far enough up to swallow the pills, not getting even one Dean-like complaint or quick witted remark. Steadying Dean's quivering hand, he helped his brother drink from the glass before setting it back on the nightstand. Sam then eased his brother back down onto the pillows and draped the cool fabric of the washcloth across his heated brow. Sam didn't like Dean's short pants for air or the way his entire body shivered from fever. The elder looked into younger's eyes for a moment, his glassy gaze sad and morose.

Missouri quickly chimed, "We'll give those pills time to work and if the temp doesn't start coming down in the next forty-five minutes or so, we'll have to try a lukewarm bath."

Dean prayed that the pills would kick in soon and spare him from both the bath and the Spanish Inquisition that he knew was coming, especially since his father was a writhing tatter of patience flapping unsteadily in the wind. Sure enough, he blinked again and found one set of brown eyes glued to his face, waiting expectantly for the details behind his behavior. Dean sighed heavily and shut his eyes against the tide of weariness that consumed his body.

He breathed, "What?"

"Son, it's too late in the night to play games. Now tell us what happened and that's an order." John felt intolerant and didn't care who knew it.

Sam felt the command pushing his buttons, causing a protective streak of loyalty to his brother to emerge at the ready. Couldn't his father see how wrecked and disoriented Dean was? Sam felt his ailing brother grasp his wrist, as if to hold him back, seemingly understanding the building tension within. As much as it killed him, Sam held his tongue. Now was not the time for another family squabble that would only lead to more soul scars for Dean.

The powerful sound of John's voice forced Dean into struggled obedience as he tried in vain to find the right words. He knew he'd have to respond or risk John's wrath. But it was not so easy to just tell what he knew. Dean remembered the whole thing – the whole gut-wrenching ordeal, but finding the strength to form the words wasn't readily coming and his befuddled brain was cloudy and uncertain. Even if the words had effortlessly formed, he knew he couldn't tell the truth. He had to spare his family the pain of his nightmares at any cost.

In the end, all he managed to croak out was, "Look, Dad, I'm sorry…I'm…tired. Can we talk about this in the morning? _Please_."

In the hazel of Dean's eyes, hurt, fatigue and some other unnamed emotion appealed to John's fatherly intuition. John felt his heart tug as his head began nodding before any words rose from his lips. Relenting, the old hunter buried his fervent need to get answers and replied, "Okay, Dean. But, I expect a full report in the morning. Understand?" Seeing his son nod, John forced himself to relax his shoulders and jaw muscles, but made no effort to move from his spot on the bed.

Discerning his sibling's discomfort with their father, Sam looked up just in time to catch Missouri's stare and knew she felt it too. Dean was emanating sheets of tension and his distress was almost palatable. Confused by it but motivated to relieve it, Sam kept his eyes fixed on Dean's as he addressed their father, saying, "Dad, why don't you go on back to bed. I think the worst is over and I can handle it from here. You need to get some sleep."

A little hurt by the intended brush off and confused by the heavy silent looks exchanged by his younger son and Missouri, John bristled, clipping out, "I'm not going anywhere until I know he's going to be all right."

Missouri could feel John's raw need and spoke up, saying, "He's right, Sam. He should stay at least until we can get this fever down. I'm giving the pills about forty-five minutes to kick in before we start considering the bath. Meanwhile, let's keep him wiped down with wetted wash rags to help nudge it a little."

Rising from the bed, she disappeared out the door, coming back in a little later with a water basin and two more washcloths. Handing one of them to John, she set the basin down on the dresser by the door and took her place back by Dean's side.

Catching the boy's fading attention, she explained, "Listen, Dean, we're going to help this fever abate by rubbing you down with cooled water. We're gonna have to take off the sweatpants so your dad can reach your legs. It might also be best if we remove your t-shirt so Sam and I can do your chest." Seeing his embarrassment at being stripped down in front of her, she suggested, "Maybe Sam can cut off the legs of your pants, making them into shorts if that would help put you more at ease?"

Seeing him nod his head yes, she retrieved the scissors and handed them to Sam who obediently cut away the material. An hour later, Dean's temperature read 102.1 and Missouri was finally able to negotiate a reluctant John back up to his own bed. Coming back into the room minutes later, she saw that Sam had repositioned himself next to Dean, his lanky body stretched out across the bed.

Lying on his side facing his brother, Sam looked as if he were sleeping. His fingers were resting near Dean's head; the tips of his fingers still nestled against the spiky short hair. Dean was out cold next to him, still lying on his back with one hand protectively covering his still bandaged chest and his head turned to the side. She could see him shiver occasionally from the chills of the fever, even though the covers had been pulled up to his shoulders, and every so often Dean's shoulders would shake with tiny coughs that were tempered in their severity by the sedating effects of the medicine.

Missouri hadn't quite realized just how much of his upper body would be covered in gauze and tape when she suggested removing his shirt. She had found it difficult to find a place to wipe down that was still bare skin. Hearing her stirring at the doorway, Sam's eyes popped open, already red and pasty from the want of sleep and stifled a yawn with the back of his hand.

"Hey," he whispered, digging out the yellow matter that had been collecting in the corners of his eyes.

"Hey, Sam," she answered back. "Go on back to sleep. I'll keep an eye on him for you."

"No, s'okay. You have clients comin' in the morning. Staying this close to him, I'll know if he needs something. Besides, I already set my alarm to wake me up for his next dose of medicine. I'll check his temperature then." Lifting one shoulder, he continued, "I don't think I could sleep through the night anyway. Not after-" His voice was too tight with emotion to continue.

"Oh, Sam. Bless your heart; I know seeing your brother like that must've scared you somethin' awful. I really don't think the convulsions themselves caused any damage, though. It was a relatively mild, short one and he was right back with us soon after. If it'd gone on two minutes more or if he had hadn't regained consciousness so quickly, I'd say take him to the hospital, but he seems okay other than the fever."

"I know," Sam returned, "but I don't understand why this is happening. Why is he running such a high fever? He didn't have one at all this morning when we checked out of the hospital. And the nightmares. This is the third one he's had this severe." Sam turned baleful eyes onto the sympathetic woman. "And, you know Dean; he doesn't want to talk about it. I feel like he's holding something back and I need to know what."

Missouri thought about it for a minute, wondering if she should share what she knew so far. Seeing the plaintive quality in Sam's face, she caved and decided he had a right to know.

"Well, maybe I can help with that just a little. I don't like to go prying into other people's business without being asked to, but sometimes if an emotion or thought is strong enough…I just don't have much choice. Ever since you boys pulled up, Dean's been telegraphing his own special brand of anxiety like a beacon in the night. I don't think he can help it; it comes from trying to put a lid on all those unacknowledged feelings."

Sam smiled a sad, knowing little smile and nodded for her to go on – continuing to give supporting nods when called for and sometimes just listening, memorizing the information she was sharing. Missouri told of how she felt a deep sense of responsibility and guilt coming from Dean over the whole demon mess and how that and the demon's words were eating away at him. She shared with Sam the sense of fear and rejection she picked up from Dean every time their father was in the room.

She saved the worst for last when she told Sam how she'd been awakened tonight by the image haunting Dean's dreams – the image of Dean on the ceiling burning alive. She wasn't clear on the details, but she did feel that this most recent dream and the one in the car, was mostly Dean's subconscious trying to deal with his emotional trauma which was leaking out of his soul like a water cistern about to overflow. If there was more to it than that, she just didn't know. When she'd finished, she instinctively moved a hand to cover Sam's, trying to give him whatever comfort she could. The heartache written across his young face was visible to both her physical eyes and her psychic eyes.

Her heart clenched at the building of tears behind his lashes, never quite spilling over, as he finally spoke. "Why? Why would he blame himself for this? I don't understand." Sam looked down at his sibling, watching the slight rise and fall of his chest as he slept. He scanned Dean's face, seeing his dark lashes dotting his ashen cheeks, still rouged with fever. His voice barely more than a wisp of air, he asked, "And why would he be dreaming about dying like Mom and Jess?"

"I don't know, Sam. I'm not sure I understand either. I can tell you that Dean's barely holding himself together. He's been stretched and pulled to the point of rupture. I really believe that this sudden onslaught of fever's his body's way of coping with the stress it's under. Maybe if he were completely healthy, this wouldn't be happening, but in his current condition…it's too much to handle. I'm afraid it could get worse before it gets better." It stung to say the words, knowing how they would hurt Sam, but he needed to know.

Looking at her with solemn, imploring eyes, Sam asked, "What can I do? How can I help him?"

Missouri smiled at him.

"For now, just be there for him. Don't demand, just be near. Also, help me keep your stubborn, obtuse father in check. That man is like a bull in a china closet – what he doesn't step on, he craps on. The last thing Dean needs now is more pressure…besides all that, the best advice I can offer is – get some sleep. You need your rest, too, and you won't do anybody any good if you come down sick."

"Yes, Ma'am," he replied, letting her draw him into a strong hug as she rose to leave for her own beckoning mattress.

Releasing him, she gave another quick pat on the arm and walked over to the light switch. Turning back before turning out the light, Missouri said in her no nonsense voice, "If you need me, if his fever goes back up – you come and get me, you hear?"

"Okay," Sam answered, holding back another yawn with his hand.

After giving him a long stare for emphasis, she flipped the light off and went to bed, still trying to puzzle the whole thing out as she climbed the stairs to her room. That the Winchesters weren't an easy lot to comprehend was the only conclusion she reached before falling back to sleep.

ooooOOOOoooo

Sam lay awake for several more minutes, digesting the information that Missouri had given him. Every time he pictured his brother's body engorged by flames and stuck to the ceiling, nausea and hysteria threatened to suck him under. Shutting his eyes against the image, he took slow breaths and calmed himself. Curious and wanting to know what was going on inside of Dean, he reached his fingers forward until they made full contact with the top of his brother's too warm head. He pressed lightly and closed his eyes, willing Dean to tell him.

No tangible visions or sounds came to him, but Sam caught a glimpse of Dean's misery as if it were his own. His head pounded furiously, his breaths labored thickly and there was a dull ache throbbing in his chest. His whole body felt weighed down with exhaustion and burned with hot fever. All of those things flashed briefly through Sam's mind. But he pushed further, past the physical wrongs. Beyond the external lay his brother's bone weary soul, riddled with doubt, fear, loathing and anxiety. All the things Dean never allowed to reach the surface, never sharing them with anyone.

Missouri had been right. Sam could feel Dean wearing down under the great pressure brought on by all that his brother had endured along with a _heaping_ measure of self-imposed expectations and responsibilities. He could sense the despair setting in as Dean's strength depleted. Sam felt his own anger stir as he wondered why Dean was so hard on himself, setting his own limits higher than anyone could be expected to attain. Dean was going to be his own undoing, helped along by their screwed up way of life.

Sam broke the connection and lay back for a moment. Deep down, he blamed their dad for a large part of this. He knew his father had always relied on Dean to come through under any circumstance and had been unwilling to accept any show of weakness. It may have started out with good intentions, but somewhere along the way it had gotten out of hand. He supposed it was because Dean had been a willing participant, never pushing back or standing up for himself against their father. Sam knew all the reasons why Dean behaved the way he did, but he just didn't understand their father's willingness to take advantage of his oldest son like that, using him the way he did.

Maybe Missouri was right; their father was just too oblivious, wrapped up in his own troubles, to see what he'd done. Satisfied with this conclusion and maybe even accepting of it, Sam rolled back over toward Dean and watched him breathing in and out, in and out – afraid that the breaths would stop if he didn't keep watching for them – until his eyes grew heavy and would stay open no longer. The last thought on his mind as he drifted off to sleep was that in the morning things would be better, they had to be for everyone's sake.

**TBC**

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a/n: I skipped sending out personal replies to each reviewer this time around hoping I could get this posted early for you (originally intended for a Wednesday posting), but due to some _massive_ rewriting, I'm just barely getting it posted at my usual rate. Sorry 'bout that. I promise that if you review this time, I will try to get out a personal note to each one of you to make up for the last several skips. Thanks to all of you for sticking with me, I hope it was worth the wait.**

**And yes, the title comes from a Red Hot Chili Pepper's song I was listening to when I wrote part of this.**

**The thanks for this chapter turning out as well as it did goes to Mady Bay and Thru Terry's Eyes for giving me a helping hand with the content. And, of course, Mady helped me wrangle this rambling of thoughts into something readable. Thanks, girls, it's much appreciated.**


	13. Chapter 13: The Memory Remains

Chapter 13: The Memory Remains

_  
_The radiant light of dawn nudged him toward wakefulness, announcing a new day's beginning with all of its pink-gold glory. Basking contentedly in the warming rays of the sun filtering softly across the bed, Sam yawned and then stretched his lanky body to its full length, banishing the stiffness in his muscles.

Settling more deeply into his fluffy pillow, Sam idly wondered why his back felt so hot and sweaty. Jerking fully awake in remembered anxiety, Sam shoved himself upright and twisted at the waist toward the center of the bed, eyes immediately scouring the blankets for his ailing brother.

"Umph," sounded Dean's disgruntled moan at be being jarred so unexpectedly. The sound of his elder brother's discontent was music to his ears and went a long way toward calming his racing heart. Sam closed his eyes in relief and drew in a deep, calming breath before fully shifting his body toward Dean's huddled form.

Concerned by the apparent heat radiating off of his brother's too dry skin, Sam reached over and felt Dean's forehead to assess the severity of the fever. _Still pretty high, _Sam thought to himself with chagrin. Removing his hand, he scanned the older man's face for other signs of distress, noting that his brother appeared terribly ashen this morning, much more so than yesterday.

Sam looked over his shoulder at the icy blue numbers emanating the time from the digital clock. Ten minutes until nine. Mentally calculating when Dean's next dose of medicine should be given, Sam swore angrily to himself. They were an _hour_ overdue. Placing a gentle hand on his brother's heated shoulder, he began to rouse Dean by alternately shaking him and calling his name.

"Dean? Dean? C'mon, man – wake up."

Dean's brow wrinkled in a deep scowl as he groaned, "Dude, leave me alone."

"Dean, it's time for your medicine. I don't wanna give your temperature a chance to go back up," Sam replied, a touch of begging mingled in.

Voice raw from rough coughing throughout the night, Dean gruffly replied, "Give it a rest, Sam. I'm tired. Just give me a few more minutes." Dean draped an arm over his eyes, hoping to shut out the intruding sunlight as it intensified, becoming hard to ignore – much like his younger brother.

Before Sam had a chance to respond, Missouri stuck her head through the doorway, calling out, "Good morning, boys." Coming in to sit on the edge of the bed, she addressed Dean, asking, "How are we feeling today?"

Missouri mimicked Sam by pressing the back of her cool hand to Dean's hot brow. He flinched out of instinct before forcing himself to relax under her touch. Mustering up all the strength he had, he lazily lifted one eyelid and gazed up at the woman, replying in a cracked voice, "Right as rain."

"Dean Winchester, don't lie to me. I can see right through you," Missouri lightly reprimanded him. Then removing her hand, she commented, "Dean, honey, you're still very warm. After breakfast, I strongly suggest you take some more pain relievers and lie back down. The rest'll do you good," Missouri continued, not leaving room for arguments.

"Breakfast? Ugh. I'll pass," he protested with a grimace.

"Dean," Sam broke in, concern taking over, "you have to eat something. Even if it's just a piece of toast."

"Listen to your brother, he's talkin' good sense," Missouri agreed. "Besides, you really should eat something before taking your medicine. At least have some milk to wash it down with. That's some pretty strong stuff they've given you."

Feeling cornered and maybe a little ganged up on, Dean heaved a weighty sigh and closed his eyes – wishing he could shut out the world as easily. Grudgingly, he began struggling to remove the covers and sit up. Lifting his head from his wadded up pillow, Dean was suddenly over come by a dizzy spell as it rocked the room and spun the walls in a whirling carousel ride.

"Whoa!" he called out, eyes clamping shut, one hand flying to his temple in an effort to halt the gyrating motion that threatened to flatten him out cold.

Quick as the speed of light, Sam was there, gripping his brother's shoulders, steadying him. "Hey, you all right?" Sam asked, and then after a few seconds of silence, tried again, saying, "Dean, you still with me?"

"Yeah. Just…dizzy," he answered, hoping to avoid more of Sam's doting concern. Dean's reply belied the intenseness of the swaying, pitching room.

Knowing his brother all too well, Sam continued to hold fast to his sibling, helping Dean to a sitting position. Missouri and Sam exchanged knowing glances before she said, "Dean, maybe you oughtta take breakfast in bed this morning. Last thing I need is for you to pass out on my breakfast table, or worse, share last night's meal with the floor."

"No," Dean's shaky voice answered, "I'm fine. Just a dizzy spell, that's all." Dean stubbornly moved to scoot out of the bed, forcing Missouri to stand up and make room for him.

"Stubborn Winchester men," Missouri clipped out in irritation, folding her arms across her ample chest.

Sam helped Dean to the edge of the bed, loosening his hold only when the other man's feet were securely resting on the carpeted floor below. Amazingly, Dean accepted his brother's help with nary a word, which only served to increase Sam's worried frown.

Dean blinked a couple of times and then allowed the hand cradling his pounding temple to fall by his side. Squinting up at the disapproving woman standing squarely in front of him, he croaked out, "Speaking of stubborn Winchesters…is Dad up?"

Smirking at Dean, she answered, "Oh, sure. I heard him bumpin' around up there a few minutes ago. And _just_ because I'm in an especially good mood today, I'll run interference for y'all so you can have some peace while getting dressed." Then, addressing Sam, she went on, "Are you gonna need any help? I'll be glad to stay if you need me."

"Nah," Sam replied, seeing her eye his cane and then his walking cast. "We'll be fine. Just try to stall Dad a few more minutes while Ring Around the Rosy here collects himself."

Catching the playful eyebrows Sam raised in reaction to Dean's glare, Missouri glanced between the two boys before dubiously answering, "Well, all right. If you're sure?"

"Yeah, I've got it," Sam confirmed, giving her a slight smile.

Shifting uncomfortably, Dean asked, "Hey, Missouri?" He waited until she turned back toward him, her expression questioning, and then mumbled, "Just…thanks."

Her features softened at the simple show of gratitude, and she warmly answered, "You're welcome." And with that, she was gone, marching in the direction of the clumsy thumping that sounded on the staircase as John gingerly made his way downward.

Left alone with his brother, Sam moved across the bed to sit by Dean, shoulders and legs brushing together. Then, peering into his brother's face, he concernedly asked, "Are you up to this, Dean? I mean, you still look like death warmed over. And, we both know how Dad can be."

Not taking his eyes from the wall in front of him, Dean asked, "What else am I gonna do, Sam? I can't hide from him, you know that. If I _don't_ go in there, he'll just make a beeline in here and the result will be the same." Feeling uncomfortable under Sam's attention, he frowned down at his lap, saying, "Better to just get it over with and face him."

Dean had been surprised by his little brother's dead-on intuition. He was pretty sure he hadn't said _anything_ about how desperately he wished he could skip this confrontation with his father. And confrontation was likely what it would become, too, considering that Dean had _no_ intention of telling John about his nightmare. It would be too painful for all parties involved and nothing would be gained by the telling of it. No, he had no intention of ever hurting his family by revealing what his screwed up mind had concocted this time.

Nodding in agreement, Sam focused on his nervous hands fiddling with some loose threads on his pajama bottoms. Then raising his eyebrows, he said, "Okay. You want the bathroom first?"

The unrelenting fatigue still evident in his eyes as they locked with Sam's, Dean said gratefully, "You bet."

The elder man's tattered guise fell back in place, not completely intact, but the best he was able to muster. Sam stood first, ready to aid if necessary, as Dean slowly put his hands on both knees and used them as leverage to guide his movements upward.

Still feeling a little wobbly, he pulled himself up and shifted his weight into the first step. Swaying backward, Dean swore fiercely, feeling his arms shooting out in front of him, reaching and balancing. Sam's arm shot out to steady him once again. Though it came at the cost of his pride, Dean allowed his brother's sturdy assistance toward the bathroom. He knew he wouldn't make it on his own since there seemed to be _two_ bathroom doors dancing swimmingly in front of him.

Once in the bathroom, Dean eased down onto the closed toilet lid and then gave Sam a warning look, raising his hand in a shooing motion that indicated some things he would do by himself. Reluctantly, Sam turned to leave, but only after his brother promised he wouldn't use the lock. After the door finally shut with a click, Dean dropped his head into both palms, squeezing his eyes shut in frustration and anxiety. He honestly didn't know how he was supposed to do this. This accursed weakness that had overtaken his body and mind was both frightening and hated.

And to make matters worse, there had never been another person or thing in his entire life that could intimidate him like his father. While Dean completely loved, honored, and maybe even worshipped his dad, he also carried around a deep abiding fear of the man. Fear of disappointing him, fear of being found to be lacking in his father's eyes. These were things that truly frightened Dean Winchester, whether he admitted it or not.

Dean was smart, sharp as tack in his own right, and he _knew_ that demons and nightmares were _not_ to be trusted for factual information. But he couldn't help carrying the images and words around in his psyche, burning and pricking his brain relentlessly.

What if it was all true? What if it _wasn't_ a lie? Not counting the numerous times he'd let other people down in the last year, he could think of several more damning examples that proved he hadn't been all John had raised him to be. Beginning with the Shtriga. He'd known how angry and disappointed his father had been with him for disobeying _that_ order, almost getting little Sammy killed. Though they'd never really talked about it, he knew things between them had been different from that moment on. Dean had been busting his butt ever since that day, trying to win back his father's trust.

Then, there had been that time Sam had nearly blown a hole in their unsuspecting father because Dean had failed to disarm _and_ hide the weapon's bullets where curious little fingers wouldn't find them. Not to mention a couple of years later when he had taken his eyes off of Sam just long enough to allow the eight year old to fall through some thinning ice of a thawing pond. That one had been bad. John had stopped talking to Dean for nearly a week, except to bark out orders or give instructions.

And, while he had no concrete proof, Dean suspected that John felt his interference in Sam's raising had ultimately led to his leaving for college. Several weeks after that night in the rain, when Dean had gotten better and John's rage at Sam had lessened, Dean had gently urged his father to call Sam and make peace with him. John had simply looked at him and spat, "You know, if you hadn't coddled the boy so much, this wouldn't have even happened." Sure, Dean had known that it was spoken out of heartbreak and worry, yet the memory remained.

But the most recent and conclusive evidence came when, not only had Dean used one of the Colt's bullets, but he'd nearly handed the whole damn thing over to the demon himself. He knew without a doubt that this had to be a serious sticking point with John.

Maybe this was why his father had left Dean behind when he found the demon's trail. If John hadn't been strong enough – man enough – to force a momentary crack in the demon's control, providing Sam the opportunity to snatch the gun, they both would've died that night and Sam would've become demon fodder, another mindless pawn in the war between good and evil.

All of it resting squarely on Dean's shoulders for not seeing through the demon's tricks, for putting them in that position and for not having the guts to pull the trigger when he'd had the chance. He was the oldest and, as such, all the responsibilities fell to him. John had given him plenty of chances to prove himself, and time and time again Dean had been a disappointment – to himself as well as to his father.

Laughing bitterly to himself, he wondered what good he was to any of them now. His body was so weakened by the demon's attack, his damaged lungs so frail, that he could barely cross a room without mind-numbing pain or gasping like an old man with emphysema. It was degrading to have his family see him like this. Yet, he was powerless to make his body obey. This is the very reason he pushed himself to the brink of absolute exhaustion. To protect and contribute to the cause, to his family, to saving people – _that_ was his duty, his reason for existing.

Suddenly overcome by a wave of pent-up fury, Dean clenched his fingers in his hair, silently screaming inside at the utter absurdity of his situation. Slamming a fist into the wall next to him, he cursed his body for failing him – for failing _them_. Wringing an unsteady hand through his hair once again, he took all of those helpless, useless thoughts and feelings and violently stuffed them down so far and so deep, that he hoped they'd never see the light of day again.

Forcing himself up off the toilet, using the walls and countertops as supports, he set about readying himself, knowing Sam was likely to be back at the door soon, demanding to be let in. He was grateful that Missouri had unpacked their stuff, including their clothes, while they had napped yesterday. Everything had been neatly stored in the spacious bathroom closet and cabinets.

By the time he had finished with all of his necessary dressing and grooming, his head had cleared enough that he was able to stand without feeling like he was going to toss his cookies. Throwing his shirt over one shoulder and gathering up the necessary supplies to redress his wounds, Dean reached for the brass door knob just as Sam rapped loudly on the other side, asking if he was okay. Dean answered by pulling the door open and drawing himself up to his fullest height, slapping on his best imitation of swaggering cool.

"What the hell, Dean? What took you so long? Dude, I was seconds from busting in on you." Anxiety turned Sam's fears into anger as he easily towered over his shorter brother, looking perturbed.

"Well, now, little brother, that could've proved a little awkward," Dean smirked, unaffected by Sam's height or his ire. "Although, I do have one fine-lookin' ass," he threw in, hoping to deflect Sam's concern.

Dean tried his best to keep the ruse going as he sauntered toward the bed, but his traitorous knee completely wimped out about half way there and he felt himself tipping forward. As expected, Sam magically appeared right by his side, putting that same bracing hand under Dean's forearm, this time also raising the other hand to the small of his brother's back.

Infuriated by his own vulnerability, Dean ripped his arm away from Sam and growled, "Get off me, Sam."

The words were said with such venom that Sam immediately let go, forcing Dean to latch onto the door jamb to keep from falling on his face. Hurt and angered, Sam demanded, "What the hell's your problem, Dean? Excuse _me_ for trying to help keep _you_ from taking a nose dive into the carpet."

Hanging his head in immediate regret, Dean clung to the entryway, leaning his shoulder against its cool solidness. Snapping at Sam wasn't going to make _anything_ better. Head still bowed, eyes closed in remorse, and his free arm hanging loosely by his side, Dean began, "Sam, I'm-," then squeezed his face in a tight grimace before finishing in a whisper, "sorry."

Afraid to risk further movement, Dean held fast to the doorway, mentally berating himself until Sam shuffled the few steps it took to close the distance between them. The younger Winchester clapped a hand on his brother's shoulder and put his other hand back under Dean's elbow, ready to help him the rest of the way into the room.

Sam's body lost all of its tension as he soothed, "I know. Now, let's get these dressings changed and see what Missouri's cooked up in the kitchen. I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

Turning his head slightly to look Sam square in the eye, Dean gratefully allowed a weak half smile to grace his pallid features before he faced forward again, nodding at Sam's words. Dean shoved off the painted wood and let Sam bear some of his weight as his brother guided him over to the bed, where he paused to help Dean clean and redress his wounds before going to the bathroom and dressing himself.

By the time the boys were ready to head for the kitchen, John was already seated at the table, grousing at Missouri about this, that, and the other. As the boys approached the doorway, they could hear their father's grumpy voice complaining about some nonsensical thing and they met each other's eyes in a knowing look that said _someone's in a fine mood_. Allowing Dean a moment to take a deep breath and ready himself, Sam paused at the doorway just a second or two before ushering himself and his brother into the sunlit kitchen.

Automatically, he could feel Dean's muscles bunch up with tension. The tiny niggling at the back of Sam's mind was warning him of a growing uncertainty in his brother that was most unlike the Dean he was familiar with. To have beheld Dean with eyes only, you would have never guessed at the emotion lying beneath the smooth veneer he'd painted on his face. Sam was a little taken aback by it. Dean was truly a master of disguise. Briefly, Sam wondered how many times he'd been conned in this very same way.

"Hey, Dad, how are you feeling this morning?" Dean called out with mock cheerfulness.

Sam avoided looking at their father as he helped Dean slip into his chair at the round oak table. Taking his place in between the two men, he glanced back and forth from one face to the other, scrutinizing each man for characteristic tells. With all the bluffing that was already going on, it was like watching a poker match.

"Me? I'm fine, but then I'm not the one scaring everyone half to death with screaming and seizures in the middle of the night," John answered smoothly.

Point match, John's favor.

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that. But it's over and I'm just peachy this morning," Dean smoothed right back, flashing a tiny smile that didn't quite match up with the weariness being reflected from his too shiny eyes.

"Really?" John questioned, and then continued, saying, "'Cause you're looking a little peaked and rough around the edges." Holding up a time-weathered hand, John put an end to the bluffing match that had ensued by demanding, "Enough, Dean. I think I remember someone promising me some answers this morning."

John bore holes straight through Dean's carefully constructed front, but to his credit, Dean only faltered a beat before it was all back in place. His face becoming blank, unrevealing, not giving off any of the undercurrents that Sam and Missouri both could feel churning under the surface.

"John," Missouri interrupted, "why don't you let the boy eat breakfast before shining the flood light in his eyes and subjecting him to an interrogation?"

Relenting a little, John answered, "What_ is _for breakfast this morning?" Then a genuine smile warming his stony features, John remarked, "Missouri makes the best flapjacks this side of the Mississippi."

Grateful for the change in subject, Dean stared grimly at the empty plate in front of him, now facing a new problem. His stomach, while not really nauseous any more, was still not interested in food.

Nervously watching the back of Missouri's head as she continued to prepare breakfast, he ventured, "Uh, I'm not really…hungry…right now. Coffee'll be fine…and maybe some toast." The last part he added after getting a kick from Sam and raised eyebrows from his father.

Turning from the stove where she was frying eggs sunny side up, Missouri wrinkled her face in disapproval before announcing, "I make a mean omelet and it'll take just a second to whip one up for you if you're not feelin' like fried eggs."

Just the mere thought of eating any kind of egg made the bile rise in the back of Dean's throat, causing him to break out in sweat along his upper lip and temples and filling his mouth with saliva.

"No, really," he nearly pleaded, his voice strained and his face turning a sickly shade of green, "Just toast…and coffee."

"Young man, you know you shouldn't be taking your medicine with coffee," she reprimanded, her voice taking on a stern quality.

_What is it with everyone and not letting me drink my damn coffee?_ he crossly wondered. Not feeling up to pushing the issue, Dean replied, "Okay, toast and milk it is.

"Now,_ that_, I can do," Missouri agreed, letting Dean's cross thought go unchecked. The way she saw it, Dean was allowed some crankiness considering all he was going through at the moment.

After Missouri served everyone their breakfast, a thick blanket of uncomfortable silence descended upon the tiny room and was made absurdly noticeable in between Dean's intermittent coughs and throat clearing. Gone from the little kitchen was the ease and familial warmth of last night's dinner, replaced instead by stiff politeness and intentional topic avoidance. As such, it made the meal seem to draw out forever too long, leaving each bite feeling exaggerated and hard to swallow.

The emptier the plates became, the heavier the atmosphere grew, like the building of a springtime thunderstorm. It caused everyone's nerves to prickle and rub raw. Sam felt himself becoming jumpy as the last bite was eaten and Missouri rose to clear the dishes. Predictably, John immediately picked right back up where he left off. Sam braced for the encounter and wondered how Dean would respond, considering his brother _never_ fought with their dad…unless he was defending Sam.

"Okay, Son, I want to know what was going on last night and I want to know right now." Pausing, John let the words sink in before adding, "And, remember, I don't take no for an answer."

John's focus was unwavering and Sam could feel the bombardment of Dean's amplified emotions as his brother geared up for battle, not backing down. With a blank face, he coolly replied, "You know, Dad. I love you and I would _die_ for you..."

_Oh no, _thought Sam, _don't say it, Dean._ Knowing what was coming next, he gripped the table until his knuckles turned white with the strain, his eyes widening in suspense.

"…but there are just some things I need to keep for _myself_."

Hearing the very familiar words uttered with such conviction, Sam's heart froze with paralyzing fear. The buzz in the back of his mind that he recognized as Dean grew more wildly frantic as his brother became increasingly upset. Sam knew his brother didn't want this, but felt backed up against a wall. Sam couldn't seem to force himself to look over to where his father was sitting absolutely still – lethally still. Licking his nervous lips, all Sam could think was, _Oh, God, I think Hell just froze over. _

TBC

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a/n: Wow, the response to the last chapter exceeded my expectations and I'm flattered. Thank you everyone. However, I'm not entirely pleased with this chapter and I apologize if it isn't up to par. I have had it finished for days now, but have gone back over it until my mind has gone numb from trying to find ways to improve it. Finally, my Thursday due date has come and I guess I'm just going to trust you all to be forgiving. I may repost this one if I ever get the words right in my mind.**

**Special thanks to qzxy from LJ and Stony Angel for filling in for Mady while she was gone and extra special thanks to Thru Terry's Eyes for pep talking me through this yet again. In fact, I probably wouldn't be posting this today if she hadn't sent along her encouraging words.**

**Once again, I owe my title to the world of music, more specifically, Metallica.**

**Edited to say: Thanks again to Mady Bay for coming in after her trip and graciously editing this for me.**


	14. Chapter 14: Unleashed

Chapter 14: Unleashed

"What did you just say?" John seethed between tight lips, still not quite believing what his ears were telling him.

With a hint of nervousness, Dean replied, "Look, Dad, no disrespect intended, but I don't see what this is accomplishing. It was just some crazy-ass dream. Nothing more."

Visibly shaken by Dean's rebelliousness, John said, "Son, it is more than just a dream if it wakes the whole household and is followed by a fit of convulsions. If I'm going to help you, I have to know what's going on. Now, damn it, Dean, tell me what this is about."

Sam tore his eyes from his father's reddening face to his brother's pale features, waiting with baited breath for a response. Dean's upper lip and brow had broken out in a new layer of sweat, the flush of fever the only color left in his face as he whispered, "I'm sorry, Dad, but I can't."

Anger hardening his normally gentle eyes, John dangerously clipped, "Can't or won't?"

Meeting his father's icy gaze with determination and strength of will, Dean sadly asked, "Does it matter?"

Slamming his large fist hard on the tabletop with a loud bang, sending the whole room jumping, John bit out, "I've had just about all the nonsense I'm going to take from you, Dean." Standing to lean over the barrier between them, John narrowed his eyes and pinned Dean with a glare as he said, "I'm your father and I am telling you – no – ordering you, to tell me."

Dean jumped up, nearly knocking his chair over, the overwhelming lightheadedness making him clumsy, then took a quick step backward, pleading, "Dad, don't. I've never asked anything from you. But I'm asking now, just…please…don't."

Missouri achingly watched as John moved to stand directly in front of Dean, leaning heavily on his crutches. Sam cautiously stood and watched worriedly as things began to escalate out of control. The two bystanders wanted to intervene but were unsure of how to without making things worse, afraid that any movement might send either man over the edge.

"Dean, I'm losing my patience," John growled, then stopped, idly noticing that he had backed Dean up against a wall. "Don't _disappoint_ me, again."

And though the words held no hidden meanings or intended hurt, Dean's heart began racing ninety to nothing, thudding loudly in his head along with blurs of something else beginning at the edges. Suddenly, the room felt too small and the air too thick. His legs were weak and his head swam dizzily, adrenaline being the only thing keeping him upright and face to face with his enraged father.

Dean felt like he was standing on the edge of a great vacant expanse threatening to swallow him whole. The floodgates holding his wounded soul inside were weakening, on the verge of splintering, making it difficult to keep it all in place. He was slipping and didn't know how to stop, was powerless to stop, no matter how he clawed at it. He was coming undone and it terrified him beyond measure. What the hell was happening to him?

Sam flinched with the revelation as it plowed through his brain. Dean was in serious trouble and Sam was paralyzed with indecision. He could feel his brother's fear and agony, but his mind was so full of _Dean_ that he couldn't think clearly enough to act on it. He knew his brother was losing some kind of internal battle, his seams coming apart, unraveling right before them all.

"Dad," Dean breathed, his chin trembling in barely concealed emotion, "don't."

John leaned in, bringing his face inches from his son's, causing bursts from the nightmare to sear through Dean's mind, like flashes from Sam's visions, winking in and out, getting mixed up with reality.

"Don't what, Dean? What is wrong with you? I have a right to know," John practically blared, worry fueling his ire. To Dean, it was a sneer, a familiarly terrifying sneer. Images continued to flash through his mind, causing him to unknowingly bring a shaky hand up to touch his temple, eyes blinking rapidly.

Still grasping his flimsy protective shield with all his might, Dean's fevered mind continued flashing back and forth between reality and his nightmares as he yelled, "Right to know? Right to know! Since when, Dad?! Since when did you _ever_ care about what was going on with me?!"

With rage, John slammed his fist into the wall next to Dean's head, causing his son to forcibly cringe, but the hand at Dean's temple stayed. John bellowed, "How dare you! How dare you question me or my feelings for you! Damn you, Dean!"

Sam saw the tremors shaking his brother's weakened body, noticed the way Dean's hand hovered near his head as if to ward off a gnat, eyes closed tight with his face twisted by unmatched anguish. Dean recoiled as John's forgotten crutch hit the floor with a noisy clatter, causing his dad to pause his tirade. Three long strides and Sam was there – firmly, protectively, positioning himself between Dean and their father.

"Dad, stop. Stop it. Can't you see what you're doing to him?" Sam pleaded, trying to reason with John, hands clutching his dad's shirt firmly.

Sam could feel the chills rocking Dean's inflamed body, could hear the wracking coughs jerking him violently, could 'see' glimpses of images from Dean's mind flickering in and out with reality – making it difficult to concentrate on diffusing the situation at hand. Sam knew their dad was not intentionally causing Dean any harm, but he also knew just as surely that he had to buffer the onslaught that was bombarding Dean's mind by any means necessary.

"What _I'm_ doing to him? I just want answers." John paused, a hint of desperation shadowing his face. "And I want them now." John knew something was up. One look at Sam's frantic face told him he wasn't getting the full picture and it scared him.

Feeling his urgency and helplessness turning quickly to anger, Sam spat, "Always got to be the one in control, right, Dad? You won't be happy until you've whipped us both into obedience like your little lap dogs!" Guilt panged Sam as he saw the glimmer of hurt cross his father's face.

"What the _hell_, Sam? I think you both have lost it!" Then, hurt and anger making him bare and honest, John hollered, "I just want to know what is wrong with my son, what you're all hiding from me!"

Both men were gripping each other's shirts, toe to toe, nose to nose – not backing down. Tension tightened around the inhabitants in the kitchen until everyone was stretched like a thin rubber band, ready to snap at any minute.

"Let go, Sam," John enunciated pointedly, veins in his neck straining against his tightened, flushed skin.

Sam gave a stubborn shake of his stringy brown mane and resolutely whispered, "Not until you back off."

"Sam," John whispered, his voice brittle with warning. "Right, now."

Glaring back at his father, his heart breaking with the words, Sam clearly pronounced, "I said… Not. Until. You. Back. Off."

Instantly John sprang into motion, he and Sam scuffling against each other as more heated words spilled from their lips, cutting into the heart of the other, fists gripping at each other's shirts in an attempt to gain the upper hand. Instantly the heated words were stopped by the reverberating sound of a crashing bowl as it dropped from Missouri's hands, nearly blotting out the desperate keening as she screeched, "Stop it! Stop it both of you. Now!"

Shocked, their focus immediately flew to the near hysterical woman as she cradled her head between her shaking hands, eyes locked on something on the floor behind them. Following her gaze downward and behind them, they both gasped. At some point, Dean had slumped downward, knees drawn to chest, hands pressed against his ears, and head lightly banging on the wall while he weakly chanted, "Stop. Please stop. I can't…stop it, please, please."

Tears were steaming down his face, along with buckets of sweat, and he continued to rock and chant, eyes closed against the pain, the fighting, and perhaps the world. Dean was broken, his ravaged body no longer able to put up with the immeasurable stress it was under.

"God, Dean!" Sam yelped as he scrambled to the floor in front of his distraught brother, John quickly joining him.

"Dean!" John implored, "Son, what is it?"

Sam grabbed his brother's arms and tried to force them away from his head, but Dean began to fight him off, as if being attacked. John also tried to contain the wildly struggling man in front of them with little success.

"Dean, stop!" John tried again, but lost his precarious balance and went sprawling backwards.

Grabbing Dean by the face, Sam forced him to meet his eyes as he held his brother's fevered head still.

"Dean, stop it. It's Sam – look at me! Dean, look at me!" Sam cried out, panicking at the sight of his big brother crumbling in his hands like a statue made of salt.

Dean's crazed, swimming eyes locked onto Sam's and he whimpered, "Sammy?"

And then Dean latched both of his heated palms onto Sam's wrists, clamping down in a painful vice-like grip as he bared his soul with one meaningful look into his baby brother's terrified eyes.

A brilliant sea of images and emotions drowned out all other thought as Sam was pulled into the boiling, churning mind of his brother. The breath was knocked from his lungs and every nerve fiber in his being was lit up in blistering torrents of pain. He was aware of shocking cold chills vibrating through his body, searing pain in his lungs, rapidly spinning walls and a relentless pounding in his head. Breathing through the worst of it, Sam relented to the visions in Dean's head as they came to him with a startling viciousness.

(Flash): demon/John's glowing eyes. (Flash): _you're no son of mine. _(Flash): Layla spent and dying. (Flash): _they don't need you. _(Flash): Sam's anguished face as Jessica burns above. (Flash): _your fault, Dean. _(Flash): Shtriga over little Sammy. (Flash): _more concern than he's ever shown you. _(Flash): gun pointed at demon/John. (Flash): _all_ _your fault. _(Flash): Sam being possessed by the demon's blackness. (Flash): _you deserve to die, Dean._ (Flash): Dean burning on the ceiling, screaming soundlessly as demon/Sam walks away, eyes now a glittering yellow.

Sam's mind burst open in a cacophony of sounds, colors and feelings that overwhelmed rational thought, ate at his inner being, shredding and consuming his soul until a final clap of shocking insight into Dean's soul thrust him backwards. Sam threw his hands out in surprise and caught himself before he completely lost his footing.

Tears stung his cheeks and his voice was lost for what seemed like forever, his Adam's apple bobbing with unspoken emotion. For a few agonizing moments, Sam just stared at his fading brother kneeling in front of him, Dean's eyes glazed over and dazed, arms lax beside him. Neither brother was aware of anything else in the room, only each other – the only movement being Dean's trembling, panting body.

Then Dean blinked once, sending one fat, wet tear running pitifully down his white-washed face. Hoarsely, he cried, "Sammy." Dean's lips trembled on the last syllable and then his eyes drifted closed as Dean himself shut down, falling forward.

Sam moved to grab for his brother, pulling him into his waiting arms. The elder Winchester's blazing head came to rest against Sam's much cooler neck, the heat scorching his skin. Sitting in the middle of Missouri's marble tiled kitchen floor, Sam clung to his brother's unconscious form, not knowing if the shivering was coming from Dean or himself. His head fell on top of Dean's soft hair and Sam allowed the tears to fall with slow motion sorrow, each drop echoing in his ears as the buzzing in his mind ebbed away, leaving him shaken to his core.

"Dean," he brokenly mouthed against his brother's head, not able to communicate anything more. "Dean."

Missouri, face damp, moved quickly across the room toward the heart-wrenching sight of the two brothers locked together, bodies still quaking, in the middle of her kitchen floor. John, bewildered and stunned silent, clambered to join her. Cautiously resting a hand on Sam's back, as if fearing sudden movements would frighten him, Missouri crouched beside him as she lightly called, "Sam…what just happened?"

But Sam didn't answer, he just hugged Dean to him as if he was afraid his brother might disappear altogether if he let go, as if his unleashed essence might be sucked into the void forever. Resting her free hand on Dean's cheek, Missouri's eyes went round with alarm as she exclaimed, "He's burning up, we have to get him in a bath. Now!"

John reached out as if to take hold of Dean but was brought up short when Sam's grip on his brother tightened and he snapped, "Don't you touch him. Stay away from him."

Confused and stung by Sam's reaction, John spoke softly, as if reasoning with a small child, saying, "Sammy, I won't hurt him, I'm not the enemy. Son, listen to me, we have to get his fever down – now!"

"Sam," Missouri intoned, "he's right, we need to get him into a bath immediately. Please, Sam, you know we're telling the truth."

Snapping back to the present, Sam gave his head a slight shake and looked down at Dean. Unwillingly to let anyone else touch his brother, Sam blinked a few times and said, "Okay, but I'll carry him."

"Sweetie," Missouri cautioned, "what about your knee?"

"It'll be fine," Sam answered back. "I can do it." Something in his voice and eyes told the others quite clearly to back off and let him manage.

"Okay. John, go get the bath started, I'll follow Sam and give him what support I can."

With a short nod, John struggled upright using a single crutch as a fulcrum and then rushed toward the bathroom down the hallway. Meanwhile, Missouri did her best to support Sam as he stood with Dean – the elder boy's head remaining tucked under Sam's chin and his free arm and legs dangling loosely over his younger brother's muscled hold.

Briefly, Sam reflected on how strange it felt to hold Dean's body in his arms like this – like a limp, battered rag doll. It wasn't natural, felt all wrong for Dean to feel so _fragile_ in his arms. He knew how much Dean would hate this if he were awake. Sam also noticed how much lighter his older brother was compared to what he had expected, what he knew he should've been. More evidence of how poorly Dean's appetite had been of late.

Tenderly, Sam cradled Dean's body closer to him, and carefully, but quickly, made his way toward the bathroom, Missouri in tow. By the time he got there, the tub was already a quarter of the way full and John was sitting on the edge, testing the temperature with his fingers.

Shoving a pang of guilt aside when John's worry-lined face turned expectantly toward him, Sam began the painstaking task of balancing Dean's weight against him as he set his brother's legs down along his own and began tugging at the burgandy over-shirt and then the grey t-shirt beneath that.

"Here, let me help you," John mumbled, his remorseful voice echoing startlingly small within the confined space of the guest bathroom.

Not able to look his father in the eyes, Sam only nodded, his shaggy hair bouncing in his eyes as he and John set about stripping Dean down to his boxers. Then, with Sam's arms firmly planted under Dean's armpits and John gripping his legs, the two men lowered the young man's fevered body into the tepid water, careful not to bang his drooping head on the hard surface. Not wanting to lose contact with his sibling just yet, Sam kneeled beside the tub and protected Dean's head by placing his arm between his brother and the frigid porcelain surface.

"How long do we need to leave him in here?" Sam asked, looking up at Missouri standing behind him.

Automatically checking her watch, she answered, "I think ten to fifteen minutes will be good, but we really need for him to wake up and take his pain relievers, too. Really, he just needs to wake up."

No sooner had the words left her mouth, than Dean's head began to swivel back and forth on Sam's tiring arm, soft moans escaping between chapped lips. As Dean's eyelids began to softly flutter, his arms and legs began to buck against the chilling water. Although John had made sure the bath was lukewarm, it felt like ice to Dean's fevered body and he fought to get out of it.

"Shh, Dean. It's all right, just stay still. Try to relax for me, we need you to stay in the tub," Sam soothed his brother.

"Sam-my?" the elder boy chattered, eyes trying to fix on Sam's face.

Sam's face softened and he leaned in closer before replying, "Yeah. It's me, Dean. I've got you. Just stay in the water."

"B-b-but,'s c-c-cold," Dean complained, still pushing against Sam's restraining arms keeping him in place.

"I know and I'm sorry, but you're burning up, man. You've got to stay put. It's either that or we're taking you directly to the hospital," Sam threatened, knowing Dean would do anything to stay out of the hospital.

"N-n-n-no, h-h-hosp-pital," Dean squeezed out from between clenched teeth. After that, he wrapped his arms around his quaking body and willed himself to stay put, no matter how much his body resisted. Sam's heart ached at how miserable his brother looked sitting there trembling, shoulders pitching with strained coughs.

"That's it, just a little bit longer." Sam hoped his words would help put his brother at ease and take away that utterly forlorn expression twisting his face in a deep scowl. Sam glanced at the now silent John Winchester who was twisting the knobs into the off position. His dad hadn't said a word since getting Dean into the water and Sam wondered what was on his father's mind. He got the impression that John was afraid of scaring Dean with his presence.

At the first sign of Dean's return to consciousness, Missouri had slipped out to retrieve his medication and was just now coming back from the sink with a glass of water. Thinking better of it, she decided to fetch the thermometer as well, wanting to get a reading on his fever before giving him the water.

"Dean, open up and let me take your temp real quick," she ordered.

He twisted his head away, raggedly coughing, and then grunted, "N-no…can't s-s-stop c-coughing."

"Dean, you have to. Just cough with your mouth shut." Seeing the stubborn set to Dean's jaw, Sam changed tactics and said, "Okay, that's it. I'm taking you to the emergency room. Now." Sam moved, as if to get up and make good on his threat.

Dean grabbed his arm and pulled his little brother back down. Obediently, Dean popped his mouth open and accepted the thermometer, hanging onto it with his quivering lips and doing his best to stifle his body's cough responses.

"That's what I thought," Sam said, easing back down beside the tub, rubbing his face wearily. Seeing Dean like this was taking its toll on him and he felt much older than he actually was.

Missouri checked the time on her watch again, careful to time both the temperature reading and the amount of time Dean was in the water. Three minutes later, she took the glass instrument out and angled it toward the light, not quite sure the reading was correct.

Raising his eyebrows and nodding toward the thermometer, Sam asked, "Well, what is it?

Nervously, she raised her concerned eyes to his and pronounced, "One hundred five point four."

Sam's eyes flew to meet John's, registering the alarm on the other man's face before asking, "Dad, whatta we do? Should we take him to the emergency room?"

Upon hearing the words 'emergency room,' Dean began to fight Sam's hold again, protesting weakly, "N-n-no, S-Sam. No h-h-hosp-pital. P-prom-mise."

Blinking and licking his lips, feeling torn, John answered, "Wait…just wait. Help Missouri get those pills down him while I to go make a phone call to a friend of mine. Be right back." He rose then and went in search of Missouri's telephone in the living room, leaving the others to calm a panicky Dean.

After a few minutes of soothing words and vague promises, Dean relaxed back into the water and let his weighted eyelids slide shut. He could feel himself floating in and out of the beckoning darkness and it occurred to him that he should just let it come. He was so sick of fighting and struggling – his body resistant to all his efforts. _I'm so tired. Just going to close my eyes for a second. Just a second, that's all, _he found himself thinking.

The other occupants of the bathroom watched as Dean hovered between wakefulness and unconsciousness, hearts racing. Frowning with distress, Sam whispered to Missouri, "He's barely staying conscious. What do you think we should do?"

"I don't know. But his fever's way too high, much higher and it could cause brain damage. Getting it down is our first priority," Missouri answered.

"Maybe I should just take him to the hospital – not wait for Dad to get back?" he ventured.

Gripping Sam's arm in a reassuring squeeze, Missouri answered, "Let's give your Dad a chance, Dean doesn't need to be upset anymore than he already has been and you've seen how he reacts if you even say the word 'hospital'. Your dad would never purposely put Dean in harm's way, Sam," Missouri tried to reason.

Reluctantly, Sam agreed, saying, "Yeah, I know. But if this 'friend' isn't legit, I'm taking him straight to the emergency room."

Accepting his words, Missouri hesitantly changed subjects, asking, "Sam, what happened in there?"

Bowing his head and massaging the spot between his eyebrows with his thumb, Sam sighed, and then deflected the question by asking, "What did _you_ 'see'?"

Before she could answer, John came rushing back in and announced, "All right, I have a buddy who's a doctor, he lives nearby and he's agreed to come over and take a look at Dean."

Slight hitching noises suddenly garnered everyone's attention, drawing their focus to the man lying in the tub. Dean's face was crumpled by emotion as he stared up at his father, whispering, "I'm s-s-sor-ry, D-D-Dad."

"Sorry? About what, Dean?" John asked, confused by the sight of his elder son, rock of the family, shedding tears that mingled with the bath water.

Dean stuttered, "F-for g-g-get-ting S-S-ammy p-p-possessed. M-m-my f-fault."

"What the-" John stumbled, speechless for the third time that day. "No, Dean. Sam's fine, he's right here. Your brother is safe."

Sam leaned in close to Dean's face, using a hand to turn his brother's head toward him, and said, "Dean, look at me. Look at me. It's Sam, I'm here and I'm safe. You didn't do anything wrong, do you here me? Nothing. I'm fine."

The shaking man looked dazedly up at his little brother, searching his face for signs of harm. Delirium blurring the edges of reality and make-believe, Dean's lips trembled as he pleaded, "S-Sam-my?" Seeing his brother's nod, Dean whispered, "I n-n-never meant f-for Jess-ica to d-d-die. I'm sor-ry."

Sucker punched and bare, Sam's eyes welled up with unshed tears as he used his thumb to wipe away a tear from Dean's face and whispered back, "It wasn't your fault, Dean. I don't blame you. No matter what else you believe, know that it wasn't your fault and I _never_ blamed you."

"B-but," Dean resisted, "he t-t-told me." His eyes fixed on John and he accused, "h-he said you b-b-blamed me. S-s-said it was m-my fault. Said I was a d-d-disappoint-ment and d-d-deserved to d-die."

"Son," John jumped in, aghast at his son's words, "that's ridiculous. I would never say that. I don't blame you. Not for any of this. I'm not disappointed in you and never have been."

"No. H-h-heard you. S-s-shiny yel-low eyes – said lots of th-things," Dean babbled. He was clearly becoming more and more agitated, starting to get worked up and uncooperative.

Turning quickly to John, Sam pleaded, "Dad, he's not coherent right now. You can't reason with him. Maybe it would be better if you went and watched for your friend."

Rubbing a hand through his hair, John wearily remarked, "Yeah, maybe you're right. It was my skin the demon used. Maybe I should stay with Bobby until he's better."

Hearing the despair in his father's voice, Sam caught his gaze at the same time as he caught John's shirt sleeve and said, "Don't you _dare_ abandon him again. That would just make it worse, trust me on this. Okay? He just needs some time."

Giving Sam a short nod of trust, John rose up and said, "I'll be on the porch if you need anything."

"And, Dad?" Sam waited for John to turn back before continuing, "I'm sorry…about earlier."

John nodded and gratefully said, "Yeah. Me too, Son."

Then the older man slipped out of the bathroom and took up sentry duty on the front porch. Sitting alone on the porch swing, John Winchester let his emotions surface, scattered tears leaking from his saddened eyes. He ground them away with his palms and whispered into the still morning air, "What have I done?"

TBC

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a/n: I think I managed to get back to everyone who reviewed last time, if I forgot anyone, please accept my deepest, most humble apologies. I hope you all enjoy this chapter, though I admit I was a little loopy-tired when I wrote it, so if it rambles – forgive the weary writer :)**

**As I have said to some of you in the past, I treasure each review as if it was a piece of chocolate coated cheesecake…and I love cheesecake and chocolate, so now you know how much I appreciate each kind word and message of support from you all. You're awesome!**

**Much thanks owed to Mady Bay for her vast supply of patience in beta'ing this multiple times and thanks to Claire Kennedy for helping me tweak a couple of things here and there. And thank you, God, for spell-check because I couldn't spell my way out of a paper sack this week!**

**Yes, _Unleashed_ is a song by Saliva – for all you music fans out there.**


	15. Chapter 15: Until it Sleeps

Chapter 15: Until it Sleeps

_So tear me open and pour me out  
There's things inside that scream and shout  
And the pain still hates me  
So hold me, until it sleeps_  
_  
Until it Sleeps…Metallica_

Once Sam had finally coaxed Dean into gagging down his pain relievers, he left his brother in Missouri's care long enough to lay out a fresh pair of Navy blue boxers, a white t-shirt and a pair of once-white socks. He had decided against sweatpants since Dean's heated body needed as much ventilation as possible, and had added the t-shirt at the last minute just in case his brother insisted on it.

Dean wouldn't want anyone gaping at his chest wounds, most especially their father, but given the state of his brother's high temperature, Sam was hoping he would let it go at just the gauze dressings. When he had returned to the bathroom, Missouri had just pulled the plug jammed in the drain and was hovering near the toilet, ready to help him anyway she could.

Sam still hadn't figured out how to change Dean into dry boxers with Missouri present, but he also knew that he needed what little help she could offer given the fact that his brother was too out of it to stand and his own knee was beginning to throb from overuse.

Understanding Sam's dilemma, Missouri kindly suggested, "Okay, Sam, you get him out of the tub and wrap the towel around him, then I'll support part of his weight and hold the towel secure while you change him out of those wet under things. Okay?"

Seeing no other way around it, Sam nodded his approval and bent to scoop Dean's weak, pliant body out of the draining tub. While Dean's eyes still sparked with fever and he continued to shiver violently with chills, at least he had stopped trying to apologize for every imagined wrong he'd ever done.

Sam was divided on whether to be glad for his brother's silence or distressed by it. On the one hand, he wasn't up to any more of his brother's incoherent confessions, especially after all he'd witnessed in his brother's mind and the whole Jessica apology. But, on the other hand, silence could mean that Dean's condition was worsening, that his brother was growing farther away from him – and that thought outweighed any other in terms of sheer fright.

As Sam lifted his brother out of the rapidly cooling water, Dean's damp head lolled back onto his arm and Sam caught a glimpse of despair in his brother's features. The part of Dean that he recognized as the independent, self-reliant older brother was deeply troubled at being so exposed, so vulnerable and dependent on someone else – and maybe that was the worst part for him.

Perching himself on the edge of the countertop, Sam sat Dean on his upper thigh and rested his brother's upper body against his chest as he reached for the towel Missouri was holding out to him. Sam used one hand to wrap his brother into the soft folds of the towel while steadying him in a semi upright position with the other.

Sensing that Dean's turbulent emotions weren't abating; Sam stopped and bent his head so that the other man was looking him square in the eye, then said, "Dean, man, you can't help this. You're sick, not weak. This is not your fault. So, just stop and cut yourself some slack" Giving Dean a single pat on the arm, he smiled as he said, "Besides, it's time I repaid you for all those dirty diapers you changed, right?"

His stronghold of protection gone, Dean could only nod, barely managing to stave off the building emotion – all save two rebellious tears that mingled obscurely with the water as it rolled off his skin and splashed silently against the faded yellow towel. Although some of the guilty embarrassment eased from the young man's posture, the frustration marring his features remained. Dean's guard might be down leaving him bare and exposed, he might even be delirious with fever, but he was still Dean. And at the core, Sam knew his brother was a born protector, a caretaker of those around him, needing only to be needed by others. To _be _the one in need was unacceptable.

As if on cue, the elder man passed out cold, his body falling limply against Sam, forehead coming to rest against his little brother's neck. Once the initial surprise wore off and Sam was confident that Dean was relatively okay, he was glad for this small mercy to Dean's pride, sparing his brother from the embarrassing task of having his wet boxers switched for the dry ones.

The sudden shift in weight had thrown Sam off balance, causing stabbing pains to lance through his tender knee; the younger man immediately began searching for a solution to his precarious dilemma. Missouri quickly came to Sam's aid as she shuffled into the bedroom and spread another large towel out across the bed, giving him a place to deposit his heavy load. Grunting with effort, Sam lifted his swaddled brother fully into his arms and carried him into the room where he gently deposited him on top of the waiting towel.

Making sure Dean was appropriately covered, Sam quickly tugged the wet boxers out from under the towel, tossing them onto the wooden floor of the hallway, and then replaced them with the navy blue ones. Then he and Missouri worked in conjunction to get the bottom towel pulled out, having dried him off with another, and Dean's legs shifted comfortably under the crisp cool linens on the bed.

Opening the towel still draped around Dean's shoulders, they quickly set about redressing his wounds and wiping down his body with cool, wetted washcloths. As they worked, Dean's head began to swivel against the pillow and he groaned under his breath, sometimes uttering a cryptic word here or there that would cause his caretakers to pause and stare at each other with concern and sometimes puzzled confusion.

Focusing on the task at hand, Missouri hesitated, then casually asked, "Sam, tell me what happened before, in the kitchen."

Thinking back, Sam tried to put names and words to the things he had experienced, had seen or felt when Dean had connected with him – knowing his words were inadequate to describe the sensations, the fear, the pain and the guilt that he had experienced with his brother. When he finally finished, Missouri sat mute, shaking her head in dismay and wonder at what was going on inside of Dean.

Stunned by Sam's revelations, she finally breathed, "That boy has taken a whole world of trouble on his shoulders, and means to suffer it alone. It's no wonder his body is failin' under the strain, with him heapin' injury upon injury on himself like that."

Sam nodded and, never taking his eyes off of Dean's face, said, "Yeah. But, I think it's more than that."

"What do you mean, Sam? What did you see?"

"Dean's _afraid_ of Dad. It's like his mind can't separate Dad from the demon. He keeps replaying the scene from the cabin over and over, sometimes adding memories that didn't actually happen. The thing is…Dean's smarter, tougher than that. After everything we've been through, why is now different? He knows demons lie; he knows they mess with your head. Why is he letting this get to him? He's never had nightmares like this, never been so unsure of himself."

"Well, not that you know of, anyway," Missouri responded. Then she soothed, "Besides, Sam, your brother's never been through this exact situation before. This kind of traumatic event can have lingering after-effects, much like post traumatic stress. Even your most hardened soldiers can become crippled by it."

Missouri paused thoughtfully before continuing, "Dean has been carrying this baggage for so long, it's had so much time to build under the surface…I can feel the crushing weight of his burden, his need to keep this part of himself buried, to be strong for the rest of you." She shook her head again and said, "He doesn't feel like he can share it, like he's alone in his misery – and that makes it ten times worse. And, I sense a new fear. I think he's afraid that if he fails to protect you, he will lose you in a way that's more painful for him than death."

Frustrated, Sam insisted, "But I'm not a little anymore. I can take care of myself. It's not his responsibility to take care of me, to feel responsible for me."

"Sam," Missouri interrupted, "you'll _always _be his responsibility. Always. Even when you're fifty years old, Dean will see you as his responsibility and that will never change. Asking him to stop protecting you, taking care of you, would be like asking him to stop breathing. It's not possible."

Eyebrows lifting and a solemn look gracing his face, Sam replied, "Yeah, and that's what _really_ scares me. I don't want to be the reason Dean dies. Especially not after Mom and Jess. They both died because of me. I can't lose Dean, too, I just can't."

Missouri watched as the anguish twisted the younger man's face, tears welling up unshed in his bloodshot eyes. Before she could speak a word of comfort, Dean reached up an unsteady hand and clasped Sam's fist full of cloth in mid wipe, bringing it to a standstill as he squeezed firmly.

Struggling to make the sounds, Dean's dry lips formed the words, "I'm not goin' anywhere, Sam." He motioned Sam closer, raising his head beckoningly toward his little brother and continued, voice cracking, "_None_ of this is _your _fault. Not Mom, not Jess – not me. Demon's fault, not yours. _Never_ yours, understand?"

Sam blinked through his tear-blurred vision, seeing his brother's parched throat bobbing with the effort to swallow, Dean's eyes glazed and distant, but still fixed on Sam's. Unconsciously, Sam reached up and laid his free hand on Dean's shoulder, unsure of what to say.

When he didn't immediately answer back, Dean prodded, "Sam…you understand?"

Grateful for Dean's absolution, Sam muttered, "Yeah, I understand."

Dean's hold faltered, then his hand fell loosely against his chest, too weak to maintain the contact. Then Dean's stare fixed on something invisible in front of him and he fell quiet once again. Had it not been for the shallow, congested breaths parting his lips and moving his chest, Sam would've feared the worst, but instead he recognized it for what it was. Dean was still with them, just too tired to say or do more.

Moving to resume the swabbing, Sam winced when his brother's body convulsed in another round of labored coughing. Moving off the bed, Missouri left and came back in with the thermometer, saying, "We'd better check his temperature again. We need to see if it's come down at all."

This time she placed the instrument under Dean's armpit, lightly holding his arm still as she timed the five minutes. Once up, she plucked the thermometer out and squinted at the tiny lines. Then she announced, "One hundred four point three. Better, but still not good."

Voices coming from the hallway halted any comments as they turned toward the doorway, anticipating the arrival of the newcomer. First John, and then the man he'd been speaking to entered the room and stopped at the end of Dean's bed.

Dressed in faded jeans and a plain denim shirt, nothing unusual stood out about the man standing casually in front of them. Nothing except the long, dark braid falling down the middle of his back and the fact that his skin was a deep brown born of heritage rather than sun. His eyes were coal black, just like his hair, and he looked to be in his middle thirties.

John spoke first, making introductions as the stranger took Missouri's place beside Dean. "This is Jay Penagashea, a friend of mine. We met a few years back. If anyone can help Dean, he can."

"Wait a minute," Sam interjected. "I thought you said he was a _doctor_?"

"Sam-" John began before Jay stifled the reprimand with one look and then turned toward the worried young man sitting across from him.

Sticking out his hand in greeting, he said, "You must be Sam, the younger one? Listen Sam, I'm gonna take good care of your brother. I'm a licensed MD who just happens to practice on a reservation rather than in an office or hospital. I like to combine my formal education with everything I've learned as the son of a fourth generation Medicine Man. Sometimes modern medicine alone isn't enough to heal certain kinds of wounds…especially wounds bred of evil, or wounds of the soul."

"Now, describe for me, in detail, your brother's condition," the doctor continued as he probed Dean's body, feeling the heat rolling off the young man lying before him.

Still clinging to consciousness, Dean followed every move warily from between his lashes, his body automatically tensing up as the unfamiliar man touched him, attempting to assess his condition. When Jay went to remove the bandages swathing Dean's chest, the younger man feebly grasped his wrist as it moved above him, stopping the action.

Dark eyes locked with Dean's and held the position, neither man relenting as Jay reasoned, "Dean, I understand. But I need to see. You can trust me."

And, somehow, instinctually, Dean knew he _could_ trust him. The very air surrounding this man whispered of kindred spirits, of ageless wisdom and of knowing. Letting his arm go lax beside him, Dean allowed the older man to peel away the layers of gauze and tape.

Cautiously, Dean waited for the typical response – a shocked upending of eyebrows, confusion about what could've done this and then the sympathetic eyes murmuring apologies and maybe even pity. Bracing himself, he waited, but looking into Jay's face as the man studied the deep, jagged grooves, all Dean saw reflecting back was…respectful understanding and maybe a tinge of curiosity. No pity, no shock and no fear were any part of the man's demeanor.

"These are healing nicely," the deep bass voice of the other man sounded.

Just as Dean began relax, he caught his father's pained expression as he, too, took in the sight of Dean's bare chest for the first time. Everything he'd feared from the stranger he read in John's face, everything plus guilt. He could see the guilt etched in every wrinkle, every line of his father's face and it left him feeling exposed – ashamed – before the man that was his hero. Reflexively, Dean tried to hide his injuries with his arms and hands, emotion threatening to choke him with its voracity.

Jay turned around just in time to catch the horrific expression glimmer across John's face as he looked away. Softly, Jay suggested, "John, maybe it would be better if the rest of you waited in the living room while I finish with the initial examination."

Dean clutched at Sam's sleeve, keeping him in place at his side, causing the doctor to add, "On second thought, I need you to stay, Sam. You can answer any questions I might have."

Immediately, Missouri began pushing the reluctant John toward the doorway, saying, "He's right, John, let's get out of his hair and let the man work. I don't know about you, but I hear a fresh pot of coffee calling my name."

John allowed himself to be led out of the room, suddenly deeply ashamed for reacting in plain sight of his son. His guilt was his, not Dean's and he regretted that he'd allowed it to show. Scrubbing his face blank, John joined Missouri in the kitchen, where she had set about pouring coffee for the both of them, thankful for the distraction of the hot, bitter liquid.

Left alone with his patient and Sam, Jay eased the young man's hands back down to the bed and pretended not to notice the sudden blinking and desperate swallowing actions as Dean struggled to regain his composure. Ignoring the way Sam was gripping his brother's shoulder while shooting murderous looks in the direction their father had gone, Jay turned to the younger brother and started asking questions, listening attentively to each answer as his hands continued to assess and evaluate.

"Has he had any kind of medication?"

"Uh, yeah," Sam answered, licking his lips, "we gave him his pain relievers about a half hour ago."

"And what did they prescribe for him?"

"Vicodin."

"What's the dosage?" Jay continued to fire pertinent questions at Sam.

Sam grabbed the bottle off the table and answered, "Um, it says, one to two tablets every four to six hours…and they're five milligram tablets. We gave him two."

"Did you take his temperature?"

"Yeah, he was one hundred five point four when we put him in the bath. Since then it's come down to one hundred four point three," Sam answered.

"Okay, good. Now, describe his symptoms as best you can remember them," Jay instructed as he bent to gather some medical instruments from his bag that had been inconspicuously dropped beside the bed.

"Well, he's been coughing a lot, but the doctors said that was normal – because of the ARDS from his lung injuries. Last night he had another convulsion that lasted about a minute or so. The first one happened at the hospital and they told us that it isn't uncommon for patients with head injuries to have them and to just monitor it and report it if it happened again. We first noticed the fever last night after the seizure, but it wasn't nearly this high." Sam paused, wracking his brain for more symptoms.

"Anything else?" came Jay's question, softly urging.

"He's been dizzy and after the fight with Dad, he passed out. Later, he became delirious – not really aware of things." Sam's voice shook with worry and he kept fidgeting on the side of the bed, unable to keep still. "He's been drifting in and out of consciousness since then."

"Right. Okay, well, your dad filled me in on all of his injuries from the demon and the accident. How long was he in the coma?" Jay watched as Sam began chewing a hangnail on his right hand.

"About four days."

"And he was released from the hospital a couple of days ago?"

"Yes."

"How long was your brother in the hospital all total?"

The young man paused, staring at the finger he'd been chewing at before answering, "Mmm, about a month. He had to stay for respiratory therapy and they wanted to keep him on intravenous antibiotics for a while. He was on the ventilator for about week or so and then took oxygen through a nasal cannula for another week."

Raising his eyes to meet the doctor's, Sam began rubbing his thighs in a back and forth repetitive action.

"They released him once he was able to get up and walk around with assistance and no longer needed intensive therapy. We promised to continue his breathing exercises at home, starting with the second day after he was released, but after all that has happened…

Jay processed that then looked to Sam again, asking, "What did they say about his concussion?"

"Just that it could've been worse and that they didn't think there would be any lasting effects from it."

Pausing his exam of Dean, the doctor gave Sam his full attention. "Has he been complaining of being cold?"

"Not in so many words," Sam began. "But he's constantly shivering. Even with an extra quilt he still seems to be cold all the time, no matter how bundled up he gets."

"Okay, and the rest of it." Jay gave the boy a steady, expecting look.

"The rest of it?" Sam echoed.

"Yeah, the rest. Odd behavior, any non-medical observations, any strange occurrences, etc." Jay waited patiently.

"You mean like nightmares, the episode in the kitchen," Sam saw the man nod and wondered how he could've known. _Dad hasn't had time to tell him everything. Besides Dad doesn't even know all of it,_ Sam thought.

"C'mon, Sam. I'm not _just_ a doctor, remember?" Jay's piercing stare went right through any of Sam's attempts to hedge.

Sam hesitated, unsure of what to do. He knew that an accurate treatment plan might depend on his being forthcoming, but it wasn't his secret to tell. Feeling awkward, Sam pointedly asked, "Dean?"

"Tell him, Sam," Dean answered, a stiff nod accompanying the words, his breathing shallow and ragged.

That was all the permission Sam needed as he tentatively began, "Well, he's been having nightmares. Bad ones. Right before the seizure last night, he woke up with one. He also had another dream in the hospital about a ghost that we believe was real and another one on the way home from the hospital, in the car."

Sam stopped and drew a breath. Somehow, he trusted this man with the knowledge he was about to impart. So, he spilled it all, the dreams between he and Dean, the feelings he could sense, the niggling of Dean constantly at the back of his mind, and the visions of Dean's nightmare in the kitchen. Everything he knew or suspected. Surprised by Dean's lack of response to his words, Sam wondered if his brother had already known about their new constant connection.

As he talked, Jay calmly continued his exam, flashing a light in Dean's eyes, thumping his patient's skin with his knuckles, listening to his heartbeat and respiratory sounds. All the while Dean lay silently and let Sam do the talking, responding only when asked to by Jay. He seemed to be fading right before their eyes, not just losing consciousness, but draining away as if his batteries were going dead and the light inside was dimming.

Finally, Jay sat back and let Sam finish up with the telling of the incoherent comments made in the bathroom. He noticed how uneasy Sam became as he told of Dean's apologetic ramblings and erratic behavior, obviously not wanting to upset his brother who could still hear what was being said.

"I said what?" Dean's voice croaked feebly, his face paling further if that was possible. "Dad," he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut with the realization of how his dad must have reacted. Then his eyes shot open as he looked up at his baby brother and said, "Sam…what I said about Jess…I didn't mean to..." Dean's stammered apology was cut short as his shoulders shook hard with more spasmodic coughs that rattled deep and wet.

"Sam, some water, please," Jay asked, trying to bunch Dean's pillows up under him a little further.

Sam was back in a flash and, with Jay's help, raised Dean up while held the water glass to his brother's lips, allowing a few swallows to slide down Dean's aching throat, then lowering him back down again.

"What now?" Sam asked, his face all innocent trust and full of worry.

"Now," Jay responded with a raise of his brows, "I go shopping." With that unexpected response, he rose and began detailing how Sam was to care for Dean in the meantime, already edging toward the door to leave, Sam rising to follow him.

"But, Doc, what's wrong with him?" Sam asked, voice low so Dean couldn't hear, stopping the other man in his tracks just outside the room.

"Well," he chuckled humorlessly, "what's not? His body has been ravaged physically and spiritually. Not only is he still coping with some major wounds and illness, but the demon's taint has been left on his soul. On top of that, he's refusing to face his fears, which are germinating in the form of night terrors and heaping more illness upon him."

"Your brother is a very sick man, ill inside as much as out. He needs more than modern medicine can afford him. We'll treat the taint left behind by the demon with a purification rite, keeping him hooked to an IV for hydration. Hopefully, during the ceremony he'll be able to confront his fears and overcome them. After that, I think the physical stuff will take care of itself, providing he rests and gives his body time to heal."

Pinching the bridge of his nose and grimacing, Sam breathed, "I knew there was more to it than the doctors were saying."

Jay reached over and gripped the young man's shoulder with a sympathetic squeeze. "Look, Sam, he's going to be okay. Providing we can neutralize the damage left behind by the demon's contaminant and as long as he cooperates, he'll be just fine."

Jay Penagashea's words brought Sam's head up with a snap. Dread hanging heavy on every word, Sam asked, "What do you mean _providing _we can neutralize the damage and _if _Dean cooperates?"

"I mean," Jay began, meeting Sam's eyes unflinchingly, "it's been quite a while since the attack; the evil's had time to fester, grow, dig deep into Dean's spirit. There is a chance that its poison has spread too far, grown too strong."

"Also, if your brother resists facing up to his fears, resists my methods in any way, then his inner being will continue to disintegrate. Look, let's be honest here, if Dean refuses to face up to this, if any part of him is unwilling to fight for himself, for his life, then there's not much more I or anyone else can do for him."

TB**C  
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**a/n: I just wanted you all to know that I was completely overwhelmed by the fantastic response the last chapter received. When I got up the next morning after posting and saw all those reviews, my eyes nearly popped right out of my head. Thank you all so much, nothing makes a writer's heart so glad as to see a full inbox of reviews. I tried to get back to you all, but I think there were a few I still haven't responded to – sorry! **

**Unfortunately, I go back to work Monday and therefore some of my updates may be a little slower, but I will do my utmost best to update as quickly as possible because I do appreciate each and every one of you. School's back in!**

**A big, huge thank you to Mady Bay for working so hard on this with me despite the fact that there's _still_ no naked Dean (sorry folks). Please forward all cheesecakes and any other gifts to her as she deserves it.**


	16. Chapter 16: Frail

Chapter 16: Frail

_"If your brother resists facing up to his fears, resists my methods in any way, then his inner being will continue to disintegrate. Look, let's be honest here, if Dean refuses to face up to this, if any part of him is unwilling to fight for himself, for his life, then there's not much more I or anyone else can do for him."_

Jay's words painfully squashed any easy-fix hopes Sam had been nursing – some medicine, some rest, lots of fluids – these were the words Sam had hoped to hear. Not ifs and maybes. He needed to know that Dean's return to health was assured, not up for grabs. It wasn't fair, not after all they'd been through already. How could this be happening – again? Sam had thought that once they brought Dean home, things would gradually return to normal and they could leave all the rest behind them in the past – where it belonged.

Stammering slightly, Sam asked, "You mean there's still a possibility that he could…?"

"Sam, I'm sorry," Jay said on a sigh. "I know this is hard, and that your family has been through a lot, but I'm not going to disgrace your family with lies. Yes, Dean could die. But, we're all going to do our best to make sure that it's a very remote possibility. I'm going to fight for your brother the best I can – you just make sure he brings his best efforts to the table with him, because without that, all of this is moot."

Eyebrows uplifted and face open in honesty, Sam said, "You don't know my brother. Dean's great at fighting for others, but not for himself – especially when it comes to facing his own fears. I'm not sure I can do or say anything that'll make a difference."

"I don't think you're giving yourself enough credit where Dean is concerned. If anyone can make a difference – it's you," Jay responded. "You have to at least try, okay, Sam?"

Sam nodded his head, eyes darting quickly to the side and back again, as he said, "Yeah, okay. I'll do my best. I just hope it's enough."

Seeing the anxiety twisting Sam's features, Jay laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder, then gave him a quick clap on the back as he said, "Your brother's spirit is strong and his heart is good – if anyone can survive this it is he. He's strongly motivated to live; his duty binds him to this life still. I believe we can pull him through this, together."

Letting his hand fall back to his side, Jay excused himself by saying, "Now, I must make preparations for the rituals and I need to speak with your dad, tell him what I know. Later, when I get back, I'll explain my plans for Dean in greater detail, but I want to confer with my father on a few things and gather some necessary materials first. Just hang tight and follow the instructions I left you, and make sure you get that prescription filled. I believe Dean's in the beginning stages of pneumonia, but the antibiotics should get a handle on that while we work on the rest of him. Take care, Sam Winchester; be strong for your brother and all will be well."

Sam nodded again, fingering the prescription that Jay handed him, and watched the older man disappear into the kitchen. Turning back toward the bedroom, Sam let his gaze linger on his brother lying so still and subdued in the bed. Dean's only movement came in the form of chills and harsh, wet coughing as it shook his entire body under the sheet. Once again still, Dean closed his eyes and breathed congested shallow breaths almost in a panting action. His face was sickly white and dark circles lined his eye sockets. He was beginning to look gaunt; something Sam had never seen his brother look.

Just seeing Dean looking small and frail lying in that bed was enough to convince Sam that Jay was speaking the truth. It was all true. Dean would've never allowed himself to seem so vulnerable in front of anyone like he had this morning if there wasn't something seriously wrong with him beyond the physical. Even when he'd been dying on the way to Nebraska, he'd never allowed Sam to help him, brusquely shoving off any well-meaning attempts.

Walking into the room, Sam rested his hip on the edge of the bed and watched as Dean's eyes fluttered open to meet his. Weariness, bone-deep and crushing in its heaviness, reflected from the depths of Dean's tired hazel-green eyes. Sam watched as his brother attempted a small, tight smile – he was still trying to protect Sam, to console him into thinking his brother was better than he looked.

Clearing his emotion roughened voice, Sam asked, "Can I get you anything? Some tea, a milkshake, some fries or maybe a burger?"

Dean shook his head ever so slightly and closed his eyes again, as if that tiny movement had exhausted him.

"Come on, Dean. You have to at least drink something. The doctor said lots of fluids, remember?"

Eyes still shut, Dean whispered, "N-nothing cold."

Laying a hand lightly on his brother's shoulder, Sam asked, "How about some decaf coffee?"

"Decaf?" Dean scoffed, his face wrinkled in clear disgust.

"Yes, decaf. Caffeine is a diuretic and we need to keep you hydrated," Sam patiently explained, barely keeping his eyes from rolling at his brother's typical response.

Gazes meeting again, Dean nodded as he managed another weak smile and said, "Always the smart one. Okay, then, decaf. Thanks, Sammy."

"No problem." Sam left the room and headed for the kitchen, intending to get his brother his coffee and the ice packs Jay had insisted on for the fever. By the time he got there, Jay had already left and John was staring unseeingly into his mug, Missouri sitting across from him.

"Hey, Missouri?" Sam broke the silence and waited for the contemplative woman to stir from her own thoughts before continuing, "Have you got stuff we can make four ice packs out of?"

"I think so," she replied. "I've got a regular ice pack and two of that kind you put in coolers. For the fourth, we can put some ice cubes in a gallon-sized storage bag."

Rousing himself from his stupor, John asked, "Why four?"

"Dr. Penagashea said we should put an ice pack under each of Dean's armpits and the bends of his legs to help bring down the fever," Sam answered, filling the plastic storage bag Missouri had given him before she scurried upstairs in search of another ice pack.

"Jay mentioned a prescription. Give it to me and I'll go get it filled," John said, the rich timbre of his voice filling the tiny kitchen.

Sparing a quick glance over his shoulder, Sam chuckled, saying, "Yeah, and how're you gonna do that with your leg in a cast?"

"I didn't say I was gonna drive, Sam. I'll manage," John said, his voice full of pride and a whole lot of stubbornness.

Pausing with the make-shift ice pack in his hands, Sam turned fully toward his father and frowned, saying, "Listen, Dad. You don't have to avoid Dean. I can go fill the prescription and let you sit with him."

Gratefully, John smiled at his younger son.

"Your brother needs you right now, Sam. I just keep making things worse. If the best thing I can do for Dean is run errands and give him space, then that's what I'm gonna do." John stood up and held out his hand.

"C'mon, Sam. You know that this is what's best for him. I just want your brother to get well." John continued to hold out his hand as he met Sam's stare with patience and concern.

Fishing into the back pocket of his jeans, Sam relented.

"Yeah, don't we all. Here." Sam held the piece of paper out to his dad and let go as soon as John gripped it. "And, Dad? Thanks."

"I'll be back in a few. Take care of him for me and…try to get some rest yourself, Son. You're limping pretty heavily on that knee." John gestured toward Sam's walking cast.

Giving his dad a quick grin, Sam nodded his head and then went back to preparing the ice pack. No sooner had the front door banged shut from John's exit, than Missouri came bustling back into the kitchen with the blue, accordion-like ice pack she had been searching for.

"Here ya go, Sam. Now, let me get those two gel packs out of the freezer for you. Where's your father goin'?" she asked in a lilting voice.

"He went to get Dean's antibiotics, big bulky cast and all," Sam replied, sealing the freezer bag tight. Seeing Missouri shake her head in disgust and a little bit of wonder, he continued, "I'm gonna go ahead and take these to Dean."

Reaching into the freezer, she said, "I'm right behind you with the other two."

As they came near the room, they heard the sounds of rustling sheets and distressed mumbling. Stepping up his speed, Sam quickly limped into the room and deposited the packs onto the nightstand as he slid next to his flailing, moaning brother who was valiantly trying to fight off an unknown attacker.

"Dean. Dean. Stop, Dean – you're safe. It's Sam. Listen to me…wake-up, Dean," Sam called out. Wrestling his brother's arms down by his sides, Sam leaned in closer to his brother's face and soothed, "Dean, it's me. It's Sam."

"Sam?" Dean asked, squinting up through the perspiration at his little brother, trying to focus his hazy vision. Quieting down, the elder asked, "Sam? What's going on? Where are we?"

Dean's confusion sent a jolt of alarm snaking through Sam's body; he knew this wasn't a good sign. Gently Sam answered, "Where at Missouri's, in Lawrence, remember? You're sick and Dr. Penagashea was here just a few minutes ago."

Face scrunched up in concentration, Dean tried to push past the fog and remember. Slowly he began to recall where he was and how he came to be there. Relaxing a little more, Dean let his head sink completely into his pillow, lids shut against the blaring light in the room.

"Missouri's. Right, I remember. Where's Dad?" he wanted to know.

Feeling the tension fall from his own body, Sam said, "He went to get your prescription filled. He'll be right back. Do you need anything?"

"A drink," Dean's cracked voice sounded weakly. "I need a drink."

Shoulders slumping in disgust, Sam exclaimed, "The coffee! I forgot the coffee. I'm sorry, Dean. I'll go get it right now."

"No, no, Sam. I'll go get it." Missouri's voice stopped his upward motion. "You stay here and off that leg," she ordered, then, as if on second thought asked, "Did you say coffee?" Seeing him nod, she questioned, "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Probably not, but I figured it was something liquid. And, what the heck, he could use a little humoring. Just one cup of decaf, though, and then I was going to try something else. He doesn't want anything cold," Sam answered back, already placing the ice packs exactly as Jay had instructed him, causing Dean to draw in sharp, jerky intakes of breath. He had to slap his brother's hands away to keep him from chucking them off the bed.

"Okay, then. I'll get it. I'll make some chicken broth, too, for later. That'll be better for him than anything."

Missouri had left the room before he had a chance to answer her, which was fine since he was a little preoccupied with getting Dean to leave the freezing packs in place. Sam hated causing his brother even more discomfort, but he knew this was necessary for his brother's health.

"Dean, you have to leave them there, they'll help bring down your temperature," Sam said.

"C-c-cold, t-t-too c-cold," Dean stammered, his body shivering in confirmation of his words.

"I know, but they stay," Sam said. "I tell you what, I'll wrap them in a towel and that should help."

Sam hobbled to the bathroom and grabbed four hand towels out of the linens' closet and hurried back to wrap each ice pack in the thin cloth. After covering his brother up to his neck in sheet only, Sam perched himself on the side of the bed again.

"Better?" he asked.

"L-lit-le bit," Dean responded.

Elsewhere in the house, they could hear the phone ring several times before Missouri's voice faintly answered it from the direction of the kitchen. Realizing how good the bed felt and not knowing how long the phone call would last, Sam decided to stretch out beside his quivering brother, leaning up against the pillows propped against the headboard. He didn't dare leave his brother's side for fear he'd ditch the packs before they'd had time to work.

Closing his eyes and letting his mind wander sleepily, Sam felt himself becoming limp against the softness of the mattress – his worn, heavy body finding it increasingly difficult to resist the temptation of sleep. Beside him, Dean's quaking body shook the bed slightly and Sam could hear his brother's soft breaths catching with chills. He began to replay Jay's words in his mind, wondering what he could say to ensure his brother's full cooperation in whatever the good doctor had planned.

"Hey, S-sam?" Dean's voice broke the silence hanging between them.

"Yeah?" Sam answered.

"I'm d-dying, aren't I," he asked, resignedly, acceptingly.

"What?" Sam jerked up, fully awake and scanning Dean's face. "No. No, Dean. I won't let that happen."

"I can f-f-feel it, Sam. Every-th-thing around me is h-hazy and dull…like it's becoming less r-real. I can feel the empti-ness g-growing inside me, the cold-ness…somethin's wrong." Dean spoke with his arms drawn around himself, trying vainly to ward off the icy embrace that had settled permanently inside his bones.

Sam soothed, "You're just feeling that way because you're sick. That's all."

"N-no, Sam. This is dif-ferent. I've been sick be-fore, b-but not like th-this. I don't kn-know what's real and what's not anymore. Every-thing's jumbled up and I can't g-get warm – no m-mat-ter how many bl-ankets are piled o-on."

Sam's voice took on an intense, determined edge as he said, "Look, Dean, you've got to hold on, man. Don't lose faith. The doctor'll be back real soon and then we can get started on getting you better. But, you've got to fight for this, for yourself. You have to want this bad enough to fight for yourself, but I know you and I know how you think. If you can't fight this for yourself, then do it for me. I need you to stick around, Dean. Please, just don't give up on me."

"Sam-my, what if th-this's meant to be? You c-can't cheat death forever. Maybe f-fate's caught up wi-with me."

"And what, Dean? Are you just gonna give up and let it come for you? Are you just gonna leave me to fight this demon on my own? You heard what it said. It wants me and it won't stop trying until it gets me or we destroy it. I don't want to do this without you. Don't you give up on me now!" Sam's angry voice shook and wavered.

Peering up into his little brother's scared face, Dean chattered, "Not g-giving up, S-sam, just being realistic. I'll n-never give up on y-you, but you need to pre-pare yourself for the reality th-that I might n-not win this one."

"You'd better, because _I'm_ not giving up. And I won't let you give up, either," Sam said with confidence that was more show than real feeling.

"Th-that's my hard-headed little brother. Al-ways th-the optimist," Dean said, his voice as strong as he could make it.

"Well, somebody around here has to be," Sam said, leaning back against the headboard again, crossing his arms over his chest.

By the time Missouri came back to the room with the coffee, both boys had fallen asleep – Dean fitful and restless and Sam with his head in an obviously uncomfortable angle against the bed's headboard. Pulling the covers up around both men, Missouri took the mug of coffee and backed out of the room quietly, careful not to disturb either one.

That was how John Winchester found his boys when he got back with the medicine. Standing in the doorway watching them both, the usually gruff man's face softened into a parent's loving, wistful smile. He hadn't seen his two boys sleeping next to each other like that since Sam had gotten old enough to demand his own bed and his own space, declaring his independence from his big brother so many years ago as all siblings are wont to do.

As he stood there, small white sack in hand, he was struck by how much they both had grown since then – no longer boys, but men. Strong, honorable, men. Young men that made a man's heart swell with the pride of a father. More than ever, John realized how much he just wanted this to be over, for the boys to gain some type of normal life. The life they deserved to have. The life he'd never given them. Once more doubt swirled in his mind and constricted his heart as he wondered how different things might've been for them both if he'd been able to handle things differently, if he'd just went this way instead of that.

Shaking his head in dismay, John wondered for the millionth time what would've been the best way to raise his sons, considering the circumstances. At the time, all he could think of was how he had needed to prepare them, train them to protect themselves. He never felt that any of them could ever be truly safe until the thing that killed Mary was destroyed. Knowing now that the demon _had_ been after Sam all along, he wondered how he could've possibly done it differently. Obviously, Sam was still in danger, which, by default, meant Dean was in danger. _How can I protect them both?_ he wondered.

Before he could finish mulling his frightening thoughts over, he heard Dean begin to moan and mutter in his sleep. He noticed how Dean's distress was causing Sam's face to curl up in a tight grimace – it was almost as if the two boys were invisibly connected, like in the kitchen that morning.

Striding over to the bed, he sat beside his older son and began smoothing his hair back with his hand as he soothed, "Its okay, Son. You just sleep now, I'm gonna make this right somehow. Just sleep, Dean. I won't let anything hurt you ever again."

The confident words seemed to penetrate Dean's delirium and he quieted again and Sam's face smoothed back out in response. John continued to linger beside his sons, watching, thinking, making plans. Finally, he rose and walked around the bed where he left the sack of medicine on the table before going in search of Missouri.

He found her in the homey little kitchen working on lunch for everyone. Although it was already late in the afternoon, they were just now getting around to eating the noon hour meal. John poured himself a cup of coffee and took his usual place at the table where he could watch the sun beginning its decent toward the horizon. _Winter was definitely coming on_, he found himself thinking.

The woman working busily in between the stove and fridge never looked up as she said, "You're back, I see."

"Yeah, I'm back," came the jumbled answer as John took a slurp of coffee.

"Get what you went after?" she asked.

"Yep, sure did."

"Checked on the boys?"

"Yeah. Still sleeping like babies."

"They both fell asleep shortly after you left. I figure they'll be waking up about the time I get this food done."

Sitting silent for a few minutes, John hesitated before saying, "This's my fault, you know."

Turning around to face the sullen man at the table, Missouri responded, "Well, you won't get any arguments from me that there're plenty of things you could've done better, but to say that this's _all_ your fault's giving yourself a little too much credit, don't you think? I mean, that evil thing that has plagued your family all these years takes the bulk of that responsibility."

"Maybe I should've just taken the boys to Jim's and left them there and went after the thing on my own."

"No, John. Those boys would've been heartbroken if you'd left them behind. And, they needed to be prepared for whatever plans that thing has for Sam. All things considered, you did the best you knew how." Missouri turned back to her work.

"Well, maybe my best just wasn't enough," John's remorseful voice answered back. "I was arrogant to think that this demon could be destroyed so easily, without casualties. I turned a blind eye to the possibility that this thing could be stronger than the sum of the three of us. And, I haven't always been there for the boys like a father should be. That they could doubt my feelings for them's proof enough that I failed them."

Turning back around, Missouri said, "Yes, you've made mistakes, but it's not too late to fix them or at least try. Don't give up so easy."

"Yeah, well, what if I don't know how? You can't teach an old dog new tricks, Missouri. No matter how bad he wants to learn them."

"Pish posh," she spat, "It's never too late to learn new things, John Winchester. And those boys are worth the effort."

Raising his thick, dark eyebrows, John simply stated, "You're right. They are."

At that, Missouri quietly resumed her task and left the stubborn man behind her to ponder what had just been said, hoping that her old friend would see the sense in his own words and come to the right conclusions about his family. She trusted that he would come to see that it would never be too late to make amends as along as his two sons and he were stilling living. Old dogs _can_ learn new tricks as long as the spirit is willing and the body is able.

TBC

* * *

a/n: Accolades to all my wonderful reviewers who spurred me on to keep at this despite my woeful lack of time. This is coming this quickly only because of you!

Thanks to Mady and Claire, once again, for being the most awesome betas around. Yea, for you girls!


	17. Chapter 17: Hopes and Fears

Chapter 17: Hopes and Fears

Dean Winchester once again found himself drifting somewhere in the familiar void of dreams and the waking world. Unlike before, this time he was unafraid of what lay before him. He was vaguely aware of his little brother's presence next to him and he was comforted. As long as Sam was safe, all was right in his world. Why couldn't he get Sam to see that? Nothing else really mattered to Dean but his family.

But Sam came above and beyond all others, even their dad. From the very first day Mom had placed red-faced, wiggly Sammy into big brother Dean's small arms, he'd known that he'd been given special charge of that tiny life staring wide-eyed up at him. Dean became the physical embodiment of the idea 'my brother's keeper'.

Not only would he have a friend to play with 24/7, but he also had someone he could take care of, someone who would look up to him. Sam had made him feel needed and important, something the adults were unable to do. And, when his four year old world had fallen in on itself that horrible day his mother was killed, he knew then that the only thing he had left of his mom was Sam. Sam would always be his connection to that time of loving and being loved back unabashedly.

Later, when life had made it abundantly clear that there was no room for his own dreams and goals, all his hopes and fears became tied up in one person. His little brother, Sam. That's why it had hurt so badly when Sam chose college over family, at least that's what it had felt like at the time. But eventually the pain had subsided and Dean had been secretly proud of his brother. Proud and hopeful that the kid might actually pull it off, might actually reach for his dreams and get them. Dean would've been content to live vicariously through his little brother, like sacrificing parents often do with their kids.

Dean still wasn't sure what had made him go to Stanford that day and drag his one and only chance at normal back into their crazy life. Yeah, he was lonely, but he was used to being lonely. Yeah, he missed the kid, missed him desperately, but none of that was justification for dragging Sam away from his new life and the woman he obviously loved. No, Dean had been motivated by something more, something extrinsic.

Dean'd had a bad feeling about Sam. He couldn't explain it and he couldn't describe it, he just knew that it was there and he couldn't – wouldn't – ignore it. That had been his number one reason for seeking his little brother out. He not only needed and wanted him by his side to help search for their missing father, but he'd wanted Sam close, close enough to keep an eye on – to protect.

All those fears had been rightly confirmed when Jessica had been murdered. And when the fire demon had used their dad's skin to share that Sam had been his target all along, Dean had nearly gone out of his mind with gut wrenching terror and blinding panic. His worst nightmares realized. At that ver_y _moment, he knew he'd have done _anything_ to keep that SOB away from his brother. So, he'd done what Dean did best. Diverted attention with smugness and sarcasm. Simple, easy and no fail. Worked like a charm every time.

Dean would always put himself between his kid brother and danger without a second thought, which is why when Sam had used these very fears to guilt him into fighting for his own life, it had worked. He knew he had to try harder, to be willing to do whatever it took to fight this thing. His duty was unfulfilled – he wasn't ready to go. Sam still needed him.

Yet, as much as he knew all these things, and as hard as he fought against what was happening to him, his body had other ideas. He had absolutely no control over the growing evil that was suffocating the life literally from his body, snuffing out the light of his soul. No doubt Dean would give it one heck of a good fight, but he wasn't sure that it would be enough, that there was enough left of him to fight with. In the end, all he had was hope to cling to and fear to run from. Even as all these things ran through Dean's dazed mind, he could feel his body growing weaker, making it difficult to breathe and remain just on this side of consciousness.

As he pushed his way closer toward awareness, it became clear what exactly had grabbed his attention and refused to be ignored, forcing his weary eyes to open. Sam had forgotten the ice packs and they were now melting against Dean's fevered skin. His armpits and thighs were damp from where they were seeping through the protective barrier of the towels wrapped around them.

As the wetness grew and soaked through the linens around him, his teeth began chattering even more uncontrollably than before, the frigid dampness chilling his skin further. But Dean didn't dare wake Sam, who was resting peacefully beside him. The big brother in Dean knew his current condition was taking a toll on his little brother and he hated it, loathed being the reason behind the dark circles and weary yawns, but he was still too out of it to do anything about it.

He'd done his best to try to appear normal – to stop the shivers, to halt the coughing, to avoid sleeping because he knew the nightmares and crying out would soon follow. But in the end, Dean couldn't control any of those things. Still, even as he lay there worrying about Sam's fatigue, the way his little brother had begun limping more pronouncedly, Dean also felt immeasurably relieved to have his brother beside him, safe from the demon hunting him, safe within his big brother's watchful eye – far away from harm.

If Dean's illness kept Sam from pursuing their old enemy, even for a little while, then it was worth every hardship, every pain and every shred of Dean's pride. Normally, he'd be all for hunting it down and exacting revenge – Winchester style. But instead, Dean just wanted to be as far away from the demon as possible. It had _wanted_ Sam, wanted to _use_ Sam and, above all else, _that_ scared Dean more than anything else ever could. What if he couldn't stop it? What if he couldn't protect his brother from the evil that was coming for him? He couldn't lose Sam like that. _Not like that. Please, God, _he thought,_ I'd do anything – give anything – to keep that from happening._

Pushing away his terrifying thoughts, Dean chose to focus on the ice packs soaking the area around him instead. Willing his leaden arms to move, he maneuvered all four ice packs over the side of the bed with a slushy plop onto the carpet below. He wondered how long he'd been lying there like that and idly recalled that someone, a doctor, had been there earlier and had already evaluated his condition – part of which had included the use of ice packs to reduce his fever.

Dean still couldn't remember the details of everything that had been said or done, but he knew that this was the first time he had been able to think clearly since he'd awoke earlier that morning. His temperature had eased enough to allow cohesive thoughts to string together in an understandable fashion.

As his chest labored to fill with air, Dean was grateful that Sam was asleep and peacefully unaware of the painful winces and watery eyes that each of his breaths were causing. He could feel the stringent burning in his lungs morphing into lancing shards with every intake that his oxygen starved body drew. When he coughed, he felt like his body was being ripped apart by explosions of agony that started in his head and chest and radiated outward to his heavy, aching limbs.

He thought surely his head should've burst into a thousand jagged bits with that last bout of coughing and was now wishing it had because maybe no head would be better than a throbbing volcano full of molten lava singeing the back of his eye sockets.

Gingerly, Dean attempted to push himself upright, hoping to seek out relief in the form of Vicodin – without an audience to witness his bare need. His feeble arms shook with the effort and the room swam drunkenly before his eyes, but Dean was determined. Holding his breath, he braced himself for the ensuing battle upward, pushing past the pain and weakness, past what his body told him he could endure, pressing forward until he managed to get upright on the side of the bed, legs hanging over the sides.

He eased off the bed, not wanting to cause any unnecessary motion that might wake his brother. On rubbery, unsteady legs, Dean took a hesitant step toward the dresser diagonal to his right, just past the doorway. Weak knees forced him to lunge forward, frantically clawing at the dresser for support. Gasping and leaning heavily against the cherry veneered furniture, he glanced quickly over his shoulder at his brother, hoping the small crash of his collapse on top of the wooden structure went unnoticed.

Sam was still sleeping, but gone was the languid, relaxed look of before. Now a troubled scowl haunted the younger man's features – it was as if he sensed his older brother's distress, knew the agony each movement toward the medicine bottle caused. Dean continued to watch his kid brother's face for moment, trying to determine whether it was just his imagination or not. Unexpectedly, he doubled over with jarring, convulsing coughs, barely managing to stay on his feet, gripping the edge of the dresser with white fingertips.

As the coughing attack passed, he became acutely aware of footsteps moving in his direction from the hallway. Stumbling awkwardly back the way he'd come, Dean was halfway to the bed when the swaying room pitched steeply and his vision went black around the edges, causing him to veer blindly toward the floor.

Coming into the room, Jay caught the teetering man as he fell forward. Arms full of Dean, Jay shifted the younger man's weight onto his chest, wrapping his arms around Dean's upper body while John rushed in and, letting go of his crutches, scooped up his elder son's legs. Together, they lifted Dean's limp body into the air and lay him back onto the bed – the commotion causing Sam to rouse from his sleep with an immediate start.

The young man ran a hand over his face and groggily asked, "What's goin' on? And why're the sheets wet?"

Jay answered, "Apparently, Dean tried to take a little walk and passed out as I was coming through the door." Toeing the ice packs on the carpet, he went on, "I think the wetness is from the melting ice packs. We need to get these sheets changed."

He looked to Sam, hoping he knew where to find some.

Wide-eyed and fully awake, Sam went to the dresser and rummaged around for the fresh linens. Finding some in the bottom drawer, he turned back to where Dean was currently holding his body rigid, fingers entwined in the twisted covers in an effort to stop the spinning, a sick grimace on his sweat-soaked face.

Seeing Dean's eyes fluttering open, John's voice rose slightly as he demanded, "What were you trying to do, Dean? Don't you have enough going on without giving yourself another concussion?"

Clenching his rattling teeth, Dean took a halting breath and said, "I'm fine…just..." He paused, his pale face turning sallow and slightly green before he labored to sit up, saying, "Gonna be sick."

Instantly Jay and Sam were on either side of him, bearing Dean's weight into the bathroom as fast as possible. Immediately he fell to his knees and grasped the cold, porcelain edges – oblivious of Sam's attempt to get the lid up before the heaving began. Having nothing in his stomach to bring up but some bile, Dean shuddered with violent dry heaves. Several minutes later, his wasted body broke free from the spasms and he sank back bonelessly onto his haunches, sagging against a nearby cabinet.

Handing him a cool, wetted washcloth, Sam asked, "You okay?"

"Yeah, just perfect." Dean croaked, his breath coming in shallow huffs.

"Are you ready to go back or do you need more time," Jay asked, his concerned eyes sympathetic to his patient.

Giving a shake of his head, Dean answered, "Nah, I'm good."

Grasping Dean's upper arms, Sam and Jay hauled him to his feet and guided him woozily back to bed. Meanwhile, John had managed to strip the wet linens off the bed and was just getting the fitted sheet in place when the others came back in. He was doing his best to stay out of the way, knowing that the crutches and plaster cast made him clumsy. After Jay and Sam got Dean safely put to bed, they covered him up with a quilt from the other bed.

John seated himself beside Dean, looked briefly across at Sam, who gave him an encouraging nod, and then lay a tentative hand on Dean's forearm. John studied the pattern on the quilt momentarily, thumbing unconscious circles against his son's heated skin as he carefully considered his words. In the silence, he could hear the faint clatter of dishes being banged around in the kitchen and Dean's struggle to breath.

Finally, John brought his sad, apologetic gaze up to Dean's and said, "Son, I'm…sorry. Just…please, Dean, stay in bed. You're not steady enough to be on your feet?"

John's words were gentle, yet they bore the underlying seriousness of the situation and clearly spoke of his intention that Dean obey. A tremor rippled through Dean's body, visibly betraying his attempts to appear strong and steady under his father's scrutiny.

"Yes, sir," he answered, and then swallowed hard against the rising tide of mixed emotions that confused him and left him wondering if maybe he _was_ losing his mind. Where was all this apprehension coming from?

His dad's presence stirred up so many emotions, many of them at cross-purposes with each other, pitting his great love and admiration for the man before him against a newfound, paralyzing fear of that same man. Overbearing, strangling terror coursed through him, leaving him shaken. Inside, he felt twisted by the need to be close to his father, but his mind screamed at him to get away, to get Sammy away. His head thrummed and his heart turned cold, so strong was this relentless impulse.

Before the panic could tear through his tentative hold, he felt a reassuring hand come to rest on his shoulder, imbuing steadfast support and consolation.

"Dean, it's okay. We're safe."

Sam's voice broke through the tangle of thoughts and Dean relaxed, his heartbeat slowing down. Even though Sam had saved him from losing face by halting the impending panic attack, this weird sense that his brother could read his thoughts and know how he was feeling at any given moment was a little disconcerting to a man like Dean Winchester. He was used to keeping such things under strict lock and key, ferreted away somewhere deep and private. It was hard to get used to.

Intently watching from the end of the bed, Jay Penagashea mentally noted each interaction and reaction between the family members, trying to decipher what was needed to aid in this young man's healing and how each family member could be used to hasten his recovery. The distress and anxiety that lived inside the soul of each man was very clear to someone practiced enough to see it, to look for it. Dean's fear of John, Sam's wariness on Dean's behalf, and John's hurt and confusion over his son's reaction to him.

Knowing the boys for only a very brief period of time, and their father for only a few years at best, Jay was surprised at how personally he took the responsibility to make things right for these men he hardly knew – but somehow had known forever. His feelings for each of them seemed surprisingly strong given the brevity of his relationship with them.

Wanting to impart some kind of solace to these men, his spirit brothers, he said, "There are valid reasons for Dean's fear of you, John."

"Dean knows he has nothing to fear from me," John tried to argue, maybe to convince himself more than anyone.

"While that would normally be the case, I think there are extenuating circumstances at play here." Jay looked to his friend, hoping he'd listen to reason. "It's obvious that Dean has been experiencing an unexplainable, unreasonable fear of you and I think it is a result of a combination of things. First, the demon's contamination that I spoke of earlier is keeping him trapped in the past. It is clouding his mind with nightmares and mental images that poison his heart against you."

"Second, traumatic events such as Dean's been through would be enough to cause post traumatic stress disorder. It is normal for anyone in his position to have residual fears and reoccurring bad dreams, even seasoned men of war."

"If that's the case, then why aren't we all having the same problems?" John asked, his disbelief evident.

Softening his tone, Jay said, "Look, John. You all are being affected by this in subtle ways that you may not be aware of. All of you have been through more than your share, but just look at what Dean has suffered. He was forced to kill an innocent man to save Sam, it was his decision to exorcise the demon from Meg, he learned that the demon has plans for his brother – specifically – and he was viciously attacked by the demon who murdered his mother and brother's girlfriend, all while wearing the face of his father who he loves and admires. I think that's pretty grim for anyone."

Looking at his first born son, John's mind worked to process Jay's words. Dean looked like he wanted to refute it all, but stayed silent – his jaw tensing up. Sam sat silently, too, but for different reasons. He knew that the doctor's words were true, every single one. John could see that his youngest agreed with Jay, Sam's mournful eyes seeking his, begging him to listen with his heart and not his head. Searching Dean's face once again, and taking in the young man's broken, failing body, John seemed to reach some kind of decision, resolution fixing his face in a firm mask of finality.

Addressing Jay, John asked, "What do you want us to do?"

Stunned, a slow grin began to sneak across Sam's face, proud that the old man still had a few surprises left in him and knowing that this would keep Dean on board with whatever plan Jay had concocted. Between them, they'd be a hard team to beat.

"Well," Jay began, "first things first. I want to perform a smudging ritual before we go any further. I believe this will slow down the illness ravaging your son's body. Also, I believe this will help prepare Dean for the next step, which will be what the white men call the 'sweat lodge'. This is the purification ritual I spoke of earlier. This should remove the demon's taint from your son. To do this, I want to transport him to the reservation for treatment."

He waited for their consensual nods, which came slowly from each man, questions in their eyes, but they stayed quiet, waiting for him to continue.

"Keep in mind that Dean's recovery will be a process, so don't expect this to be an instant cure. No one comes out of a battle without scars, and you need to accept this for his sake and help him to accept it, too. And, Dean, you need to give yourself a break from the guilt trips; you've been through a lot and have kept yourself together better than any soldier could've, but your body will need time to heal completely."

At Jay's words, a fleeting look of surprise flitted across Dean's face. How could he have possibly known what he was feeling? Jay's ability to read him was uncanny. But then, Dean remembered how easily it had been to trust this man, how he had felt a kinship with him almost immediately. He nodded his head, but didn't dare speak.

Questions running through his mind, Sam broke in, saying, "So, you want to take him to the reservation?"

"Yes, I do. There we'll have easy access to the sweat lodge and any herbs or medicines we might need. Plus, my father has agreed to assist me."

Sam nodded understandingly and asked, "When do we leave?"

"First thing in the morning. I brought the medical van we use to transport patients."

Looking frustrated, John asked, "Why wait? Why not go now?"

"Well, for a couple of reasons. First, Missouri has been laboring in the kitchen all afternoon fixing us a delicious meal, and I don't want to disappoint her. Secondly, Dean needs a little more time for the antibiotics to kick in and it wouldn't hurt him to have a good night's rest."

"But," Sam began, "what about the nightmares? He can't rest if he can't sleep."

"I plan on giving him a mild sedative at bedtime that will ensure a peaceful night's rest, Sam. Don't worry, guys, I've put a lot of thought into this; I think I'm prepared for most anything. Now, why don't we put tomorrow out of our minds for the moment and see what Missouri has cooked up for us?"

Seeing Dean's repugnant look and the way his skin tinged green, Jay said, "Right. First let's get you some medicine to ease your nausea so you can eat something…your body needs fuel to strengthen it."

Jay went over to his medical bag and rummaged through it, then came back with a small vial and a syringe. After drawing out some of the liquid with the needle, he flicked the tube of the syringe and depressed the plunger slightly to let out the air bubbles. Sam stood and allowed the doctor to sit by Dean who was now eyeing the syringe with skepticism and maybe just a pinch of dread.

The doctor pulled back the covers and hiked the leg of Dean's boxer shorts up has high as it would go before deftly plunging the needle into Dean's thigh, depressing the plunger and releasing the medicine into Dean's bloodstream. The action elicited a stifled grunt from the patient, but nothing more.

As Jay was finishing up, Sam and John began discussing sleeping arrangements, with both offering their own beds to the doctor. By the time the two men agreed that John should take Sam's bed since Sam would be sleeping next to Dean again – Jay had placed everything back in his bag and had come back to his patient's side.

"Rest now, Dean," Jay said, "and try to eat and drink as much as you think you can. I don't want you to make yourself sick, but do your best, okay?"

Dean gave a short nod, still silent, still uncomfortable with all the attention he was getting from everyone in the room – it was crowding in on him. He just wanted to be alone. He needed to be out from under the microscope he was under. He didn't feel like eating, he didn't want to keep up pretenses anymore – he just wanted to take two pain pills and be left alone for a while. Inside his head, voices taunted and tortured him, making it difficult to keep track of what was internal and what was external.

Listening to his family tripping over themselves to make sacrifices for him, and knowing they would be monitoring his every move and sound, left his nerves raw and taut, feeding the internal war. The effort it took to keep pretending, to keep it together – even this much – was wearing and exhausting. The buzzing in Dean's head grew deafening; the voices accusing him of being a burden on his family relentless.

Sam noticed the panicked look in his brother's eyes and immediately began ushering the others out of the room, saying, "Uh, hey, guys, I'll stay here for a while if you want to go ahead and eat?"

"No, Sam. You go ahead with Jay, you haven't had a break yet and I can stay with him until you're done," John said.

"No, please. Go ahead. I can wait."

"You haven't eaten since this morning, Sam. You need to keep your strength up."

"Dad, really, I-" Sam's began to protest.

"Stop! All of you, now! I don't need a baby-sitter. Just leave-"

Unable to finish the sentence, Dean was doubled over by intense, uncontrollable coughing that threatened to turn him inside out. The forcefulness of it exacerbated the pounding of his head and introduced new searing pains that ripped into his sides. Minutes later, he was breathless, in agony and completely spent. Clawing at his exploding head with one hand while wrapping the other around his ribs, Dean whimpered with pain in between gasps and curled up on his side as wetness squeezed out from his tightly shut eyelids.

Sam cradled his brother's head in his lap as Jay tried to examine Dean. The young man's body language was causing a heightened sense of alarm in everyone, not knowing the cause of his reaction.

"Dean," Jay commanded, "Tell me where it hurts. Dean, listen to me, I need you to focus on my voice. Just focus on the words and take gentle breaths, in…out, in…out."

Jay's voice cut through the haze of pain and slowly Dean began to respond, tried to breathe with Jay, but the sharp pains in his sides made it nearly impossible. Finally, he resorted to short, light pants and allowed the older man to ease him onto his back, his head still in Sam's lap.

Examining Dean's eyes, Jay detected slight flecks of red in the whites that indicated small ruptures from the force of the coughing. Moving his hands to Dean's ribs, he quickly assessed that Dean had bruised, or possibly cracked, some ribs as well. Watching the younger man swallow against his pain, eyes hidden behind tightly clenched eyelids, Jay felt for his pulse and noted its racing, erratic pattern.

Sighing in frustration, Jay asked, "When's the last time he had the Vicodin?"

Glancing at the clock, Sam quickly calculated the time and replied, "About four hours ago."

"I want you to go ahead and give him his next dose now. Hopefully we can get some of this pain to ease. The coughing has caused some bruising to his ribs, maybe even cracked a few, and he's got tiny ruptures in the whites of his eyes from the force of the coughs. But, I'm more concerned with pain management right now. I'm gonna go and see if we have any cough suppressants in the van and I'll be right back." Pausing a second at the doorway, Jay said, "John, come and give me a hand."

Hearing the implied 'let's give him some space,' John immediately gathered his crutches to him and said, "Yeah, I'll be right there."

Hastily, Sam slid out from under Dean, quickly bunching pillows up under him, making his brother as comfortable as possible. The movement evoked a sharp cry from Dean who immediately clamped down on the sound by biting his lip. Sam rushed from the room, trying not to notice, and came back with the water for taking the medicine. Once the pills were swallowed, Dean lay back on his side, still hunched over, and tried to steady the rise and fall of his chest, aware of Sam's worried stare.

"Dean, I'm sorry. You okay?"

"Don't, Sam…just...don't apologize. It's not your fault," Dean clipped, managing to keep the stutters from his speech.

"You know, Dean, I don't see this as a burden – you are not a burden."

"I don't need someone to watch over me 24/7, Sam. Dad's right, making yourself sick won't help anybody."

"Fine, I'll bring a plate in here and I'll…_not_ watch you," Sam answered, reaching for a compromise.

"C'mon, Sa-," Dean began, but the words came out too forcefully and he ended on a wince before he could finish. "Just go eat. It's not like I'm going anywhere," Dean grunted, being more careful this time. Fixing his green gaze on Sam's, he tried to communicate confidence to his brother despite his sweat covered, ashen face.

"We could move you to the recliner in the living room and that way Sam will feel better having you nearby _and_ he can eat at the table with us," came a voice from the door. "Is that reasonable?"

The boys turned their heads toward Missouri, a little startled to find she'd snuck up on them. Tired of making the effort to talk, Dean nodded his head, indicating he was agreeable.

"Great," Missouri said, "I made some homemade chicken broth soup for you. I'll put it in a mug and you can just sip at it."

Standing aside for Jay, Missouri watched as the doctor proudly displayed his find in the van. "This should help quiet that cough," Jay exclaimed, pleased with himself.

"What is it?" Dean mumbled, not bothering to mask his distaste as he glowered at the unlabeled bottle of mysterious red liquid.

"Actually, it's Vicks 44. We keep it without the label so no one knows it's just an over the counter drug. I don't want to give you anything stronger because you need to be able to cough up the phlegm."

Missouri relayed their plan for moving Dean as Jay administered the nasty red potion to his patient. All agreed, she moved past John in search of a vaporizer she knew was stuffed somewhere in the bathroom closet, as well as some extra blankets.

Moving Dean proved to be no easy task, however. Jay had to have Sam help him since John couldn't walk very far without the support of his crutches, even though the doctor didn't like the younger Winchester putting all his weight plus some on his bum knee. It was especially troublesome since they had to move slowly, careful not to jostle Dean anymore than necessary.

Once settled in – covered with blankets to the neck – Dean warningly waved Sam away, insisting he would be just fine without his conjoined twin firmly attached to his side. Once that was accomplished, Missouri came in with a big mug and a straw and helped the young man sip the better part of the cup down. Miserably, Dean accepted her help knowing his chilled insides would welcome the hot liquid and resigned to the fact that it was either that or more mother-henning by Sam.

By the time they had all finished the now late evening meal, Dean was sleeping fitfully – drugged by the Vicodin and warm chicken broth combination. Taking the opportunity to catch up on some e-mail and do a little research, Sam grabbed his laptop and plopped down on the couch. Looking up intermittently from the blaring screen at his brother, he willingly acknowledged to himself that he was feeling nervous about tomorrow. He was terrified that it might not work – that something might go wrong or Dean might be too weak already. He hoped his research would provide some kind of back up plan…just in case.

Watching Dean's expression, his brow permanently wrinkled in pain, Sam wondered again how he had ever allowed so much time to be wasted between his brother and him. He realized that Dean had been worthy of his childhood worship after all. Through all their family's up and downs, his brother had been the rock in the midst of a whirlwind storm of life-changing events. Always there, always strong and steady – never taking from anyone, only giving of himself.

Not that Dean was some kind of saint or anything, but the more time Sam spent with his brother, the more proud he became to be his brother and appreciated him. Dean wasn't the most well-mannered person, he didn't have lauded degrees to back up his intelligence, and he wasn't known or befriended by people easily…and, admittedly, most people found him to be brash, cocky and sometimes rude, but that was just the outer covering. The back story was a whole other issue.

When it mattered, Dean was someone you could count on, who would always come when called on. He was resourceful, smart and loyal to a fault. Though he'd never admit it, Dean had a heart of gold and a soft spot for children – all admirable qualities of a man who had a lot to offer to a family. And Sam wanted his brother to have a chance at something normal like that, felt he deserved at least that much for all that he had given of himself over the years.

Sam had enough faith for the both of them and he'd dream big dreams for his brother as well as for himself. He couldn't and wouldn't allow his brother to die this way. His fear was conquered by his unbounded, ever-resourceful hope and faith that he could save Dean – he simply refused to accept any other outcome. No matter what.

TBC

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**a/n: Okay, I know I didn't get back to anyone who reviewed last time, but I want you all to know I did read and savor each and every one, so keep 'em coming. I just got busy trying to get this ready and didn't have time.**

**Also, this next chapter may or may not take a while, but I want the next few chapters to be the best I can make them, so I will take as much time as I can to do the best I can…we are in the home stretch people (I'm planning on Chapter 20 being the last one, provided I don't get too long winded between here and there)!**

**To Mady Bay, Claire Kennedy and Thru Terry's Eyes, thanks to you all so much for helping me with the kinks…there were many. You guys really keep me on my toes!**


	18. Chapter 18: Regrets

Chapter 18: Sharing Regrets

Sitting on the couch opposite Sam, John Winchester leaned into the comforting softness with a sigh and propped his heavy cast onto the coffee table, throwing a glance at Missouri, hoping she didn't see. From the dour look she shot him, she hadn't missed a thing. Sheepishly, he added a pillow under his cast and mumbled a quick apology.

Across from him, his elder son was sleeping in the recliner, soft moans slipping from his lips when the nightmares became too dark and too frightful. Dean's pinched face was beginning to flush with fever once again, but no one dared wake him – agreeing by silent omission that any sleep was better than no sleep at all – at least for now.

Jay and Missouri were engaged in discussions of herbs and their practical applications while Sam continued to scour the internet for possible alternative methods of healing. Every so often, the youngest Winchester's eyes would flick between the soft glow of the computer screen and the restlessly tossing figure whenever the moans or whimpers grew loud enough to break his concentration.

John watched both men interacting in silent communication - vaguely, but constantly aware of each other in their own minds. He had noticed the marked change in the brothers the moment Dean had come out of his coma. They seemed to be intimately connected in a way that transcended traditional human bonds or understanding. While John could admit to feeling a little jealous, mostly he just felt relieved, relieved that at least they had each other through all this.

As he began to relax, he reflected on their lives together. He couldn't deny an acute sense of loss and anger at the precious memories that had been stolen from his family. Whether cheated by fate or entirely born of his own blind, heedless quest for justice, John was angry that he'd lost the chance to see his boys grow up in the traditional sense – complete with fishing trips, ball games and picnics in the park. Nothing would ever be able to replace those stolen moments. How different things might have been, if only.

Startled from his reverie by Dean's increased agitation, John worriedly watched as the younger man's restless movements turned into pronounced jerks and loud whimpers. He was dreaming again. Whatever lay behind those tightly clamped eyelids must surely have intensified past the point of tolerability because now Dean's head swiveled back and forth as he mumbled achingly soft pleas. Before John could locate his crutches and rise, Sam had discarded the laptop and was moving to quiet his tortured brother.

Sam leaned over Dean, gingerly resting a hand on his brother's chest, and whispered gently, "Hey, shh. Its okay, Dean. Rest, now…that's it, just rest."

Sam lingered beside Dean for a few seconds more, feeling his heated brow and gripping his forearm in a consoling squeeze. Once his brother had stilled, he resumed his place on the couch, meeting his dad's gaze with a melancholy look of helplessness.

Running a weary hand through his tousled hair, Sam blew out a long, gusty sigh and said, "I don't know how much more of this I can take." Chuckling wryly, he reiterated, "I guess I should say, I don't know how much more of this _he_ can take, ya know?"

Blinking away the ghostly remnants of unshed tears, John replied, "Yeah. I'm sorry. I'd do anything if I could change things or make it better for you."

Taken aback, Sam said, "Dad, I know I've blamed you for just about everything, but I was wrong. Growing up, I had a lot of anger and I didn't know how to handle it. Picking fights was just my way of dealing. Since Jess, I've done a lot of thinking…and I'm not sure I could've done things any better. I know making the decisions you've made must've been tough."

"It was," John answered, "but that's no excuse for staying gone and leaving you boys alone. I should've made a home for you, kept you in the same school year after year. I could've left you with Pastor Jim instead of hauling you cross-country from one rundown motel to the next."

Head bowed, Sam listened to his dad say the words he'd been waiting years to hear, but, somehow, they didn't make him feel any better. Now he only felt sadness and even a little pity for the regrets that his dad carried around. He'd expected to feel justified, victorious and maybe even a little smug – but all he felt was an abiding sense of longing for what could never be. Making his dad admit his wrongs didn't make Sam feel any of those things he had expected to feel and it didn't change the way things were.

Extending the long overdue olive branch, Sam said, "The funny thing is, even if you had, I'd still have been angry. I don't think I realized until recently that all the things I really wanted were never in your power to give. I wanted "normal", you know? I wanted a picture-perfect family that wasn't broken, when the truth is the night Mom was killed, so was my dream of what a family should be like."

Sam smiled sadly at his dad, hands gesturing his helplessness as he continued, "I know now that having that kind of life was never possible for any of us after that. I don't blame you anymore, Dad. It's what we were dealt, so I guess it's time to stop wishing for all those things that will never be no matter how much I might want it. At least, not like that. But, we still have each other."

Sam paused, face full of wistful regrets of his own.

"I think that's what he's been trying to tell us all these years," he finished, his eyebrows raised high and head nodded in Dean's direction.

Smirking lightly, John asked, "When did you get so wise, Sam?"

Laughing mostly to himself, Sam answered, "I guess I've done a lot of growing up in this last year. They say that life sometimes makes the best classroom."

Father and son allowed the moment to linger between them – treasuring it as one of the few pleasant interactions shared as mutual adults. But minutes later, the terrible dream playing inside Dean's head spilled over into reality, breaking the spell that bound Sam and John together and making the more than adequate living space seem constricted and claustrophobic with his panic. Gasping in great heaving lungfuls of oxygen, Dean's arms clawed at blankets and air in his desperate attempt to be free of the demons nipping his heels.

Infused with his brother's alarm, Sam swore under his breath and, in two long strides, covered the distance between him and Dean. As their father clamored toward them, Dean continued to struggle for breath that seemed to get caught in his throat and would go no further. With each unsuccessful attempt to do what normally came so naturally to him, the young man became more frantic and wide-eyed – his mind unable to reason and his ears unable to hear.

Sam did his best to get his brother's attention, to soothe his fear, but he could feel the loss of control that was burning under the surface of his own forced calm. Grabbing Dean by the face, he forced his brother's green eyes to meet the deep-sea blue of his own as he forcefully called Dean's name – part prayer, part command.

"Dean. Dean, calm down. Just stop and focus." Sam could feel the panic radiating off his brother in waves that threatened to smother and overwhelm. He had never seen Dean gripped by an anxiety attack before and it was as disturbing as it was scary.

Dean's eyes began to roll wildly as his chest continued to strain against invisible bonds. His hands clamped down on Sam's wrists where his fingernails dug into Sam's flesh, biting and stinging in their wake. Dean knew that Sam was trying to tell him something, but the blood pounding in his ears and the urgent need to breathe drowned out the words. He couldn't breathe and he couldn't swallow – he didn't know whether to throw up or pass out or both. He could feel his lungs crushing inward as the ringing in his ears grew louder. Sweat soaked his face, chest and palms, the latter of which made it difficult to maintain a hold on Sam's forearms.

Sitting up a little straighter, he focused again on his little brother's scared, but compelling, face. Sam's eyes begged him to see, and he did. His brother's lips were moving and sound was coming out, but it was difficult to decipher the words. Dean – that was it – Sam was saying his name. Dean what? He focused harder, strained to move past the physical and hear his brother's words. Gradually, his brother's voice began to crowd out the deafening roar of his own fear and he could make sense of what was being said.

"Dean, please, man. You have to calm down. Take it easy, just slow down. Slow down, big brother. C'mon, man, you can do it. That's it, Dean, just ease up," Sam was saying.

The rushing sound in his ears faded little by little and small puffs of air were now filling his bursting lungs. He continued to stare into Sammy's eyes; forcing himself to hear the instructions his brother was monotoning in a low, carefully controlled voice.

As the fear drained away, Dean gradually became aware of his dad standing nearby and the worried gaze of the others – embarrassment burned his ears and stung at the backs of his eyes in the form of unseen frustrated tears. Why was this happening to him? Demon's taint, yeah, he remembered – but it didn't make the bitter taste of humiliation easier to swallow. Snatching his hands away from Sam's arms, Dean slumped backwards into the chair, waving a hand in the air to motion that all was fine and the freakish side-show was now over.

He closed his eyes against the parade of unwanted faces as he said, cringing at the hoarseness in his voice, "Pictures, people."

Catching on quickly, Sam turned to the concerned onlookers and said, "I got it, thanks." And then he nodded, indicating that they should go back to whatever task they had been doing before.

Amazingly, no one said a word – not even John – and they quietly went back to whatever they'd been doing, feigning casualness. Dean was conscious of the fact that Sam lingered by his side, but still couldn't summon the courage to open his eyes and confront his spooked kid brother. It was too much to swallow. Too much for him to see what might be held in Sam's eyes just then.

Sam hesitated, not knowing what to do next. He was afraid that anything he might say would upset his brother and endanger their newly formed closeness. What could he possibly say to someone like Dean that wouldn't be contrived as an affront to his pride? He didn't want to pretend this didn't happen, but he also didn't want to push Dean further into his protective shell. Shaking his head and drawing in a bolstering breath, he opened his mouth to speak and prayed that the right words would form somewhere between his brain and his lips.

"Look, Dean. Don't open your eyes, don't say a word. Just listen, okay?" Sam waited for the nearly imperceptible nod before continuing. "It's all right. I know you and I know how hard this is, but you need to know that I understand more than you think."

"Once, in college, just after I left, I had an anxiety attack of cosmic proportions right in the middle of History 101. We were taking our first test and it just came on from out of nowhere. The single most embarrassing moment of my life – panting, sweating, nearly vomiting – the whole nine yards – right there in the middle of a bunch of strangers."

Sam stopped to chuckle at himself before saying, "That's how Jessica and I first met. Me sitting there looking like dufus of the year and her sitting right behind me, planning my rescue. Next thing I know, she's apologizing for spilling ice down my back and taking the brunt of the commotion onto herself. I'd never felt more grateful for another person's presence since that time you saved me from that lonely-heart's witches' coven in Tennessee."

Faintly, the corners of Dean's mouth lifted, a ghost of a smile gracing his face. In that small gesture, Sam knew he'd done the right thing, said the right things to smooth out the awkwardness between them.

Peering up from under heavy lids, Dean murmured, "Dufus of the year, huh?"

"Yeah, well, you don't have to remember that part, ya know," Sam said.

"Yeah, I know, but I will anyway. That's just too good to forget, Sammy." Dean paused a beat and then said, low and whispery, for Sam's ears only, "Thanks, little brother."

"You're welcome. Dean…are you gonna be okay?"

Dean nodded, but the smile was gone and Sam was sorry that he'd broken the magic of the moment. _Too late now,_ he thought to himself.

"Wanna talk about it?"

This time Dean answered, his gravelly voice growing husky, "Now why would I wanna do that?"

Shrugging, Sam said, "I don't know, just because it might help." Seeing this was going nowhere, Sam asked, "So, you're all right?"

"Sammy, you know me…I'm always all right." And with that, the conversation was effectively ended.

"Yeah, right," Sam answered back, giving Dean's knee a final pat as he walked by.

Thankful for his brother's retreat, but at the same time aching from the emptiness left in Sam's absence, Dean sighed and despondently wondered how much worse this would get before it got any better. He knew his renewed hold on his raw, naked emotions was temporary and tentative at best and with each minute that passed, the growing fever threatened to strip him bare for a repeat performance like that morning's kitchen fiasco.

Watching Sam through veiled vision, Dean noticed his brother moved past the couch directly into the kitchen, only to emerge minutes later with a large tumbler of ice water and a flexible straw. He then headed for Dean, his intentions clear. Helping his weakened older brother hold onto the glass's slick surface, Sam helped Dean sip the cooling, refreshing contents without a word.

Behind them, John sat stone-walled on the divan. Taking in every move and not missing the undercurrents that rippled between the two brothers, John longed to be included, to be of use. He wasn't used to being helpless and _unneeded_. Shut out, that's how he felt, shut out and unnecessary. _When had that happened_? he found himself wondering. Burying his face in his hands, rubbing them roughly up and down, John stifled the urge to force his way into the mix. It was killing him to sit idly by like some kind of outsider. Dean was his son, he needed to be involved.

Silently, Dean was watching his dad's battle of instincts. Guilt panged sharply in his gut. He didn't want to be the source of his dad's anguish.

Clearing his voice and waving Sam and the glass away, Dean said, "Dad, you okay?"

Surprised, John's head jerked up, a quizzical expression on his face as he replied, "Uh, yeah."

Was he really that transparent? Rising from his seat, he walked closer to his son and cringed inwardly when Dean visibly shied away from him. Bracing himself, he pressed forward until he was standing within touching distance of his now shivering son. A muscle in Dean's jaw jumped in the effort to keep his wits about him. Tension blanketed the atmosphere as everyone discreetly watched the scene play itself out.

Unexpectedly, Dean said, "I'm sorry, Dad. I'm slowing you down from finding the demon. You should be concentrating on that and not _this_."

Dean looked away, ashamed to find that he'd spoken the words aloud. The discomfort sharpened and the stunned man towering over Dean suddenly looked annoyed. Frown lines creasing his brow, John's eyes sparked with ire and he alternately clenched his hands into balled fists and released them again.

"Why would you say that, Dean? You're more important to me than the demon. There'll be plenty of time for that later. Right now we just need to get you well. Is that clear?" John said, forcing his voice to remain even and low.

"Yes, sir," Dean answered, quickly batting his eyelashes to fan away any wetness that might have collected there.

Concerned by the flush that had colored Dean's too pale face, John reached out and laid a hand on his son's forehead. The contact with Dean's heated skin resulted in a sudden jolt that had him yelping with pain and rearing backward, head gouging into the fabric of the recliner. Straining muscles, accompanied by more cries of pain, forced Dean's body to bow away from the chair, unable to stop or find relief.

Horrified, John immediately tried to pull away only to find that he couldn't. As Dean's screams penetrated the air around him, John continued to yank at his hand – a wave of dizziness sweeping through his body, causing him to waver on his feet. John could hear Sam on the other side of Dean screeching at him to stop, terror making his son's voice loud.

Missouri and Jay jumped up from their places and stood paralyzed – their minds unable to comprehend what was happening. Tears streaked down Dean's face and the veins popped out in his neck as he continued to labor against the agony flooding his body, holding him prisoner. Desperately, Sam reached out and grabbed John's arm and wrenched, instantly breaking the bond with a loud crack that singed the air with an acrid smell and sent Sam flying back into Jay, who had come up behind him.

John fell backwards in a heap and Dean collapsed unconsciously against the chair, his arms falling over the sides, head drooping onto his chest. A thick trail of blood streamed from his nose and left a crimson stain on his white t-shirt, his lifeless body falling utterly still. Disentangling himself from Jay, Sam leapt toward Dean as the doctor regained his own balance and moved toward John.

Pressing his fingers onto Dean's carotid artery, Sam nervously felt for a pulse. Finding one, he let his head fall to his brother's shoulder, relief leaving him trembling with weakness. _Still alive, thank you, God, still alive._

Letting out a pent up breath, Sam lifted his head and touched Dean's face as he called, "Dean, wake up. Dean. Hey, man, wake up. Please, you've gotta wake up now. Dean?"

Not getting a response, Sam sought out Jay who was busy helping an unsteady, confused John to a sitting position on the floor. The doctor's eyes had never left his patient, Sam noticed. Jay's face held caution, but as he felt the younger man's attention, he forced reassuring calm to replace it. Sam watched as the doctor came to them and checked Dean's pupil response and vitals for what seemed like the twentieth time that day.

The clouded look on the older man's face sent Sam's head spinning again as he asked, heart in his throat, "Doc? What is it?"

Meeting Sam's intense stare, Jay said, "We're leaving…tonight. Help me get him in the van. Sam, now!"

Sam jumped at the sharp order, but his senses had dulled with dread and time seemed to slow to a standstill, leaving him to wonder at the empty places in his memory later on. He would soon find out just how much more they could, indeed, take as the night folded into his worst nightmare once again.

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**a/n: I know this wasn't my best work as promised, but a tangle with a kidney stone took up most of my week, so sorry for that – I ended up cranking this one out in about two days time, which is fast for me. I also, didn't get around to replying to everyone, once again, but I'll do my best to get it done this time. Thank you all for reading and I look forward to reading your comments.**

**P.S. You might find that a couple of lines from this chapter mimic some Alec lines from Dark Angel. If you find them, see if you can name the episode!**

**Thanks to Mady Bay and Claire Kennedy for giving this a good once over for me. I appreciate your comments and helpful advice.**


	19. Chapter 19: Desperate Rituals

Chapter 19: Desperate Rituals

_Meeting Sam's intense stare, Jay said, "We're leaving…tonight. Help me get him in the van. Sam, now!"_

_Sam jumped at the sharp order, but his senses had dulled with dread and time seemed to slow to a standstill, leaving him to wonder at the empty places in his memory later on. He would soon find out just how much more they could, indeed, take as the night folded into his worst nightmare once again..._

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His heart beating wildly against his ribs, Sam ran behind Jay as they rushed Dean to the van, his brother's head lolling loosely against his chest. Once inside the vehicle, Sam scooted back against the cold, leather seats, pulling Dean along with him.

Dean was completely still, except for his shallow, rapid breaths and some involuntary trembling. Sam could feel the heat pouring off of his brother's body and soaking into his own. Hearing the metallic clang of the van's doors as Jay and then John piled into the vehicle, Sam braced himself against the jolt forward as they raced into the night.

Suddenly, Sam became aware of warmth streaming down his hand. Loosening his hold on Dean's body, he brought his hand closer and inspected the wet stuff coating his fingers. Blood. Dean's blood. Sam knew things were serious, he'd seen the look in Jay's eyes, he'd seen the trickle of blood coming from Dean's nose, but it wasn't until that very moment he allowed himself to _feel_ the seriousness of the situation. Dean was lying unresponsive in his arms, bleeding and shivering violently from his elevated temperature – this was so not good. He wondered if Dean would even be alive by the time they reached the reservation and was horrified by the turn of his thoughts.

"Shouldn't we be taking him to the hospital?" Sam asked, pushing away the clawing panic roiling inside him as he grabbed a package of gauze from a nearby medical kit, ripping it open and pressing the contents against Dean's nose.

"If this was an ordinary situation, then yes – absolutely. But, this isn't and what is wrong with your brother can't be fixed by modern conventions alone," Jay answered.

"Are you sure? I mean, couldn't they at least get him stabilized?" Sam asked.

"No. I'm sorry, Sam, but he doesn't have that kind of time."

Sam stiffened. "What does that mean?" Not getting an answer, Sam demanded with more force, "What are you saying?"

Gently, Jay said, "He's dying Sam. I must have underestimated how quickly the taint had spread. Either that, or the episode in the living room accelerated it."

Flexing his jaw muscles, Sam let the cold words painfully lodge in his heart. Hearing it was so much harder than suspecting. Tightening his grip on Dean, Sam rested his cheek against the top of his brother's head and closed his eyes, barely holding the emotion at bay. He felt Dean's warmth against his skin, felt the movements of life beneath his arms, breathed in the familiar, pungent scent that was uniquely Dean and refused to believe it was all slipping away.

Jostled by the jerky movements of the speeding van, Sam was forced to hold on tighter as he heard his father's panicked voice clip, "Can't this thing move any faster?"

"John, I don't think it'll go much faster without wings," Jay answered.

Running a shaky hand through his hair, John asked, "What happened back there, Jay? What did I do to him?"

Thinking it through, Jay replied, "To be honest, John, I'm not entirely sure. I believe that it is possible that the sickness has grown so strong inside Dean that it must have reacted to some kind of residual left behind in you. While you weren't attacked by the demon in the same way, it is possible that some kind of imprint was left behind on you as well that sparked the reaction in Dean."

Hesitating, Sam asked, "You can save him, can't you, Doc?"

"I'll do my best and that's all I can promise, Sam." Jay fell silent then and no one said more, the tension coiling inside each man too tightly for talk at that moment. Instead, they just held on as they careened toward their destination, praying to God that they made it in time.

Sam leaned his brow against Dean's hair again and whispered brokenly, "You're gonna be just fine, Dean. I won't let you go…I won't...I can't."

Finally, after what seemed like forever, they arrived and the van came to a lurching stop. Jay turned to face Sam, saying, "Stay put just a minute, Sam – I'll be right back. John, you're with me."

Sam only nodded as the other men rushed from the van, leaving him alone with a fading Dean in the back. Sam stilled himself, concentrating on his brother's ever weakening life signs. He could feel Dean's life-force leeching away like a softly deflating balloon. Willing his brother to hang on a little longer, he fought the urge to hijack the van and fly to the nearest ER. He'd have been long gone by now, but he knew Jay was right, knew that he'd have to trust the virtual stranger with Dean's life, as terrifying as that thought was.

What seemed like forever later, the side door flew open and Jay was helping Sam move Dean's lifeless body to a waiting stretcher being held by two more black haired, dark skinned men dressed in scrubs. As Sam exited on Jay's heels, carefully grasping Dean under his arms, he got his first look at the new landscape. He noted with surprise that they were at what looked like an actual doctor's clinic. Confused, he quirked an eyebrow at Jay.

"Welcome to our clinic slash hospital," Jay said. "I'm going to get Dean set up with an IV before we take him down to the Inipi. My father and brothers will need some time to heat the rocks and get everything prepared. I'm not leaving anything to chance and I'll use medical and non-medical interventions. Okay, Sam?"

Sam jerked his head in a quick nod and followed right beside Dean, not letting his brother out of his sight for a moment. Once inside the building, they entered the triage area and the men immediately settled Dean on a nearby cot, stripping him of all his clothing, save only his boxers, and prepping him for the IV.

Watching the men working quickly and deftly, Sam asked, "Where's my dad?"

"I sent John down to help get things ready for the ceremony. He's spent enough time with us to have a good idea how things work and I thought it'd help take his mind off of things at the same time."

"Good thinking," Sam admitted.

"Okay, Sam, when we get down there, you're gonna have to strip down, too. I can get you something a little more traditional or you can wear your boxers, but it's going to be too hot inside the lodge for a full set of clothes," Jay instructed.

"Boxers'll be fine."

Nodding his acknowledgement, Jay excused himself, saying, "I'm gonna go get dressed, now. As soon as I get back, we should be ready to move Dean on down. We'll drive part of the way and then walk the rest. Oh, and make sure you remove any jewelry or shiny metal objects from yourself and your brother."

Then putting a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder, he soothed, "I know this is hard, but try to take a breath and relax as much as you can. Dean needs you to be strong…and I know you will be, so have confidence in yourself young Winchester."

Blinking back his emotion, Sam bit his lip and nodded again – grateful for the elder man's words.

The next time Sam saw Jay, he was decked out in full ceremonial dress as was his tribe's custom. Sam would have been impressed if he hadn't been so preoccupied with watching Dean's every breath, murmur and tremble. By the time they reached the hut-like structure, the rocks were red hot and the preparations were made. At the entrance of the dome, an altar stood with offerings placed there by Jay's father, brothers and John. Mostly, the offerings were bundles of herbs, tobacco and things of that nature.

The two men carrying Dean stopped in front of an older man sitting next to John, obviously Jay's father, with his time-worn, wizened face and silver streaks taking over the better part of his hair color. The man was chanting a traditional tribal prayer in his native language – his face illuminated by filtered moonlight and the radiant fires burning brightly around them.

Leaning in toward Sam, Jay explained, "Before we take Dean inside the dome, my father will smudge the three of us in preparation for entering the Inipi."

Sitting the litter on the ground in front of the medicine man, the other two men left them. Sam followed Jay's example and seated himself on the ground, across from Jay's father and his own.

"Sam, this is my father, Joseph "White Owl" Penagashea. Father, this is Sam Winchester, son of John Winchester, and his brother, Dean."

"Way-se-gi-se-gi, young Winchester," Joseph replied. "Let us begin."

As the old man chanted prayers, he was handed a clay bowl with a single, fiery lump of charcoal cradled within. Reaching into a pouch secured at his side, he rubbed bits of herbs between his palms, letting the pieces fall on top of the charcoal where it began to smolder. Offering the bowl to the Spirits, he then used a large feather to waft the smoke over his body, then John's, Jay's and Sam's – saving Dean for last. When Dean's turn came, the old man spoke in his native language to Jay as he fanned the strong smelling vapor across Dean's entire body.

"Father says he can see shadows in Dean's heart. His soul color is not good in the area surrounding his chest, so he will concentrate the smudging in that area to fill in the dark places and chase away the evil spirits."

Sam watched as the medicine man offered more prayers to the Great Spirit and repeatedly smudged Dean's upper body. Once satisfied that Dean was ready for the lodge, he set the bowl aside and directed everyone to the dome covered in animal skins. Sam stripped down to his boxers as John did the same. Once inside the dark, confined space, Jay removed the bulky blanket covering Dean and laid it aside, leaving only Dean with his boxers and a bag of IV fluids behind.

"Young Winchester, you and your father should sit across from me," Joseph beckoned them forward.

Nervously, Sam turned toward the entrance as the fire keeper entered carrying one large, glowing stone with a forked instrument. Joseph accepted the stone with a pair of deer antlers and placed it in the center of a pit dug in the earth. Slipping his hand inside the small leather pouch again, Joseph began sprinkling a combination of herbs over the burning rock, little sparks of the burning bits floating through the air in the aftermath of its consumption.

After the seventh rock was placed in the pit, the fire keeper brought in a bucket of water and then closed the entrance on his way back out. The only light emanating through the darkness of the Inipi came from the illuminated rocks in the pit. Dipping a ladle full of water out of the bucket, Joseph slowly poured the water over the herbs and rocks, releasing a hiss of steam and fragrance in the air around them.

Immediately, Sam could feel the humid warmth enveloping his body as the scent of sage, sweet grass and various other herbs filled his nostrils. As Joseph began alternating between more chanting and singing, Sam concentrated his focus on his brother lying in front of him by laying a hand on Dean's forearm - wanting to keep touch with him in the thick darkness. Abruptly, Jay was beside him explaining the significance of what was being done.

He finished up, whispering, "This is the first round of the ceremony, there will be a total of four – each one an offering to the sacred directions."

The second round came to a close without any sign of improvement from Dean and Sam was beginning to wonder if he had made a mistake entrusting his brother into the hands of these people and their foreign ways. Sweat was now flooding from every pore of his body and the atmosphere was so stifling and hard to breathe that Sam wondered how much more he could endure.

Beside him, his father had been silent, not making a single move to say or do anything at all. John, too, glistened with perspiration, his eyes were closed and if Sam hadn't known any better, he would have sworn that his father's lips were moving in prayers of his own. The intensity of those prayers increased along with the blistering heat as each illuminated rock was carried in and placed in the pit.

The darkness settled in around them once again as the fire keeper closed the flap and the third round began. Long minutes afterward, when he thought he couldn't stand the suffocating heat any longer; Sam was startled by a low, soft sound made deep in Dean's throat. Looking at his brother through the blackness, he saw Dean's eyes rolling around under the lids and his head twitch slightly to the left. With bated breath he waited for more signs of awakening, hopeful that this was actually working.

Leaning close to Dean's face and resting a hand on his brother's shoulder, Sam whispered, "Dean? Can you hear me?" No response. "Dean…please?"

Dean's eyes continued to dart around under his eyelids and a whimper escaped his throat – but no other movement was detectable. There was no outward evidence of the raging struggle inside Dean. Instead of the comforting nothingness that had enveloped him only minutes ago, he was now aware of a pounding head, lancing pains in his chest and how difficult it was to draw in a breath through his thickened, sponge-like lungs. The heavy feeling of dread weighed down on his shoulders as he opened his eyes.

Unnervingly, he found himself pinned against the roughened wall of the cabin from his nightmares. In front of Dean stood demonJohn, piercing eyes holding his, evoking instant fear and hatred for the entity before him. He was really beginning to loathe this room, loathe this wall, and loathe these feelings of weakness. How many times was his subconscious going to keep replaying this tired, old scene?

As if reading his mind, demonJohn responded, "Until you wake up, Dean. Wake up and realize that you're worthless to them, a danger to them…that they're stronger without you around to get in the way, to be careless."

"No, that's not true. You're lying," Dean snarled back, his eyebrows drawn together and lips twisting with emotion.

"Of course it's true. That's why you keep bringing us back here, deep down, you know the truth," demonJohn said with a vile chuckle. "Don't you, Dean."

"No. I don't want anything to do with you or this God-forsaken place."

Grinning, demonJohn said, "Oh. Right. Now we get to the real truth of the matter. Truth is…you're _afraid_…afraid of me. Afraid because you know I _will_ win. You know I'll win and then you'll lose Sammy-boy forever."

**TBC**

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A/N: You all were too kind with that last review, really. I do adore all of you. Special thanks to Mady Bay for beta reading this for me and special thanks to Thru Terry's Eyes for helping me with this…trust me, it wouldn't have turned out well without her direction and input.**

**I apologize in advance for any mistakes, I put in some extra stuff after Mady betaed it and intended to go back over it myself, but after that super-awesome episode last night, I just can't think about anything else. I'm still stunned by the greatness of that episode…there are no words…**

…**Ted Nugent rocked the opening, didn't he!**

**Anyway, if you notice any big problems, feel free to bring it to my attention.**

**Please keep in mind that I am not an expert on Indian Heritage or Native American Nations. There is an actual Indian Reservation near Lawrence, Kansas, but I drew this information mostly from the Cherokee and Lakota tribes.**

**Note: Way-se-gi-se-gi means welcome or good day.**

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Great Spirit Prayer(origin unknown)

_Oh, Great Spirit, whose voice I hear in the wind, _

_Whose breath gives life to all the world. _

_Hear me; I need your strength and wisdom. _

_Let me walk in beauty, and make my eyes ever behold the red and purple sunset. _

_Make my hands respect the things you have made and my ears sharp to hear your voice _

_Make me wise so that I may understand the things you have taught my people. _

_Help me to remain calm and strong in the face of all that comes towards me. _

_Let me learn the lessons you have hidden in every leaf and rock. _

_Help me seek pure thoughts and act with the intention of helping others. _

_Help me find compassion without empathy overwhelming me. _

_I seek strength, not to be greater than my brother, but to fight my greatest enemy - Myself. _

_Make me always ready to come to you with clean hands and straight eyes. _

_So when life fades, as the fading sunset, my spirit may come to you without shame. _


	20. Chapter 20: Devils and Heroes

Chapter 20: Devils and Heroes

_Grinning, DemonJohn said, "Oh. Right. Now we get to the real truth of the matter. Truth is…you're afraid…afraid of me. Afraid because you know I will win. You know I'll win and then you'll lose Sammy-boy forever."_

Lunging forward against his restraints, rage overcame fear and contorted his features as Dean threatened, "No, you leave my brother alone or-"

"Or what?! You'll do what, Dean? You can't even save yourself, much less Sam. You're no threat to me," jeered DemonJohn.

Dean's face fell as the truth pierced his heart and mind. Even as he fought against the invisible bonds, he knew he was helpless. He was vaguely aware this wasn't real in the physical sense, but all too real on a different plane of existence. Somehow, that made it all that much harder to fight against. Dean was good with his hands, good with weapons, but this…this was uncharted territory.

Beaten, his eyes flitted around the room desperately. He sought for escape or some way to warn Sam, but he found nothing – no loop holes, no last minute plan B's were coming to mind. _Damn_. Dean sagged against the wall and clenched his jaw, barely able to conceal his feelings and meet the menacing golden eyes peering expectantly back at him...

Meanwhile, hovering over his fevered body, Sam was still trying to get through to him.

"Dean?" Sam whispered again, leaning in close to the elder man's face. He knew instinctively his older brother's features would be marred by a terrible grimace had he been able to see him clearly. Sam could feel the weight of his dad pressing in to get closer, his need to be close to Dean almost palatable. Sam knew John was just as worried as he was.

But Dean only whimpered, the hand lying on his chest twitching in response to his hidden torment. Sam felt more than heard the pain and desperation permeating through that single sound. Clutching Dean's shoulder, Sam closed his eyes and reached out with his heart, seeking Dean the only way he could.

He felt the other man's fever burning hot against his bare knees where he knelt against him – knew that couldn't be good – and he kept reaching. He could hear the small murmurs elicited deep in his brother's throat and he could smell the tangy, salty sweat as it mixed with Dean's own brand of Uniquely Dean scent. Stilling himself even further, he became aware of his brother's heartbeat faintly struggling against his ribs and of the light pants for air. Sam knew that his brother's body was failing under the stress of illness and spirit battle.

Shutting out the chanting of Jay's father, Sam placed his hand on his brother's chest, right next to Dean's, and allowed the sound and the vibrations of the faint lub dub to keep him grounded as he strove to make a connection with him, whispering, "Fight, Dean, fight it."

Unable to hear his brother's words, Dean was feeling more alone then ever. He was alone and all out of ideas. Keeping his carefully constructed shell of indifference in place, Dean dared the apparition before him to take its best shot. He was tired of fighting and tired of hurting. He needed a break, needed for this to be over. The only thing left between him and peaceful rest was fear for Sam's safety. Who would protect Sammy after he was gone? Would Dad? Maybe, if he could just withstand this hell long enough, there'd be time to warn his family.

He knew what would come next. Been there and done that - it was no surprise when the dull burning in his chest exploded into a torrent of crushing pain. It ripped through his senses, consuming his resolve and rendering him helpless to the screams searing the air around him. As the world went red, Dean recognized the cries as his own.

As Dean yelled within, Sam jerked back in response – his brother's agony lancing up his arm like an electric pulse. Immediately, Sam intuited that this was more than physical pain. Eyes still wide from the shock, Sam visibly startled when the flap of the Inipi was thrown back, allowing soft light and cool air to come rushing in, granting a reprieve from the unbearable heat and blindness.

Conscious of his dad's questioning look, Sam said, "Something's wrong, I can feel it." Sam's watery gaze locked with John's as he continued, "We're losing him, Dad. Dean's dying. What do we do?"

"All right, Sam, just stay calm. You can do this, Son. Just reach out to him like before. Sammy, I _know_ you can help him, okay?" John's confident voice rekindled a glimmer of hope deep within.

Sam nodded and closed his eyes, hand still covering Dean's chest. This time when Sam reached for his brother, he reached with his soul, with everything he had. The urgency to find Dean was sent out like a bright beacon deep into the void of space, lighting the way homeward.

Still engaged with the demon, Dean's senses stirred in response to Sam's efforts. Amid the desolate anguish, he caught a hint of something…familiar, welcome. It lightly grazed the edges of his mind at first and then pushed more insistently, begging for admittance. His soul warmed at the touch of it. Pushing back against the unrelenting suffering, Dean reached toward it. It. Was. Just. Out of. Reach. Right…there. Sammy. Sammy was calling to him, his little brother's fear overpowering his own, instilling a new urgency to protect and comfort.

Swallowing hard, Dean whispered, "I'm here, Sam. I'm still here and I'm not going anywhere, little brother."

"Fight, Dean. Don't give up," Sam's ghost-like voice drifted through his mind, pleading.

Face twisted, Dean forced his eyes open and stared back at the thing before him. As he met the gleeful stare with a new determination, he tried to look beyond the image his mind had created and into the heart of what the demon really was. The face of his opponent faltered for a moment, uncertainty clearly written in its features. The face shimmered for a split second, then morphed into Dean's own countenance. Dean wasn't fighting his father anymore, he was fighting himself.

Smiling knowingly, DemonDean growled, "Who knows you better than me?"

Shocked, Dean felt himself sinking to his knees, temporarily released from the grip of evil. Both hands slapped hard against the floor, barely keeping him from rooting up the floorboards. As his arms trembled with the effort to remain upward, sweat dripped from his face and body, mingling in with the blood that was already pooling below him.

The saline droplets ran into his eyes, leaving him temporarily blinded so that all he could do was listen to his own voice droning on above him. Black fear coiled inside and he pushed Sam just out of reach, keeping him from fully entering this nightmare, keeping him hidden deep within - safe. The evil presence was obviously latching onto whatever it could use to keep a foothold on Dean, and he was determined not to let his little brother become its pawn.

"Did you really think it was going to be as easy as that, Dean?" the demon hissed, stepping closer to the wounded man on the floor. Cocking its head, DemonDean said, "You really are a sucker for happy endings aren't you. No, I won't let you go that easy. Just because you know the name of the game doesn't mean you get to run the show, my friend." Giving Dean a disgusted kick to his side, it smirked, "Especially when I'm the one making the rules."

Still on his knees, hands palm down and levered against the floor, Dean moved to sit on his haunches – still wincing from the sharp kick to his ribs. Then, pushing himself back to lean against the wall, he lifted his head and closed his eyes.

"What is it that you want from me?" Dean asked, voice rough and barely audible. Not really asking to know, but to distract.

DemonDean murmured, "Ultimately? Sam, of course. Your death is just a means to an end. It's the key to unlocking all the dark places inside your brother." Eyes gleaming with hate, the demon bragged, "I'm going to use you to turn your brother's heart as black as my own."

"No," whispered Dean, shaking his head. Icy fingers of terror tickled his spine causing his heart to lurch painfully. "I won't let you."

The demon looked at Dean smugly, saying, "How do you plan on stopping me? Especially since it is you who will be instrumental in sending your brother down the path to his own destruction?" DemonDean put his hands on his hips and reveled in Dean's fear, knowing he'd struck a sensitive spot.

Barely checked emotion turned Dean's face into a mask of loathing as he spat, "You're not real. Just some scrap of the real thing. You have no real power."

Amused, DemonDean relaxed his shoulders and leaned back, seemingly unconcerned by the young man's words. "You're right, I'm not the real deal, or this," he gestured around the room, "would be a moot issue. I'd just possess you and bend you to my will. But, let's not kid ourselves here, Dean. I may be a weakened version of my kind, but I'm still very real – not some merry figment of your imagination."

The demon leaned toward Dean again, saying, "I still have enough power in this place to know you're hiding something…and, I think that something is Sam. You know I have enough power to use him against you, don't you, Dean?" Satisfied at the look of horror flitting across its victim's face, it chuckled again, knowing it was gaining the upper hand.

"No, please, I'll do anything - just leave Sam alone. Please…" Blood spattered Dean's chin, déjà vu of his former plea of DemonJohn – when the battle had been physical and not spiritual.

"Hmm, 'anything' could be interesting," mused DemonDean as it squatted beside its prey, looking thoughtful. "Would _anything_ include ownership of this body? Are you willing to give that for the sake of your brother?"

Dean felt Sam's panic ripple across the void, ramming into the back of his skull. Shoving his little brother away, Dean blinked, stalling for time. He needed to protect Sam at all costs. He _knew_ what he had to do. Looking into what should have been hazel-green eyes, he answered, "If that's what it takes."

Laughter reverberated and echoed against his skin, against the walls, against space and time. It was the chilling sound of defeat.

On the other side of reality, John watched his two sons cautiously, itching to take control of the situation – to help his boys. Sam had fallen silent, deep inside his connection to his brother while Dean continued to make soft moans that caused John's heart to heave and ache. If he leaned in close enough, he could just make out their features; Dean's pale and harsh – Sam's locked in concentration. Before he could draw back, "Please" burst from Dean's lips along with a spray of blood…just like-

John's thoughts were interrupted by a whispered 'if that's what it takes' from Dean followed by shouted commands from Sam.

"No, Dean! Don't! Don't you do this!"

Alarmed by the frantic terror in Sam's voice, John gripped his younger son's arm which was still resting directly over his brother's heart. The small walls of the Inipi suddenly tipped sideways and blurred into spinning colors that danced dizzily before his eyes. _What's happening?_ his mind demanded.

As he faded into the backlash of his touch and a subsequent pulling inward, he heard first Dean and then Sam yelping – Dean arching up off the ground like he had in the chair at Missouri's and Sam with his head thrown backward, eyes squeezed shut. But his sons' yells were quickly lost as he was transported to the tiny cabin located just this side of forever.

Blinking away the undulating spots, John could see two Deans dancing in his vision. One Dean was on his knees, blood trailing from his mouth as he cried out in pain and the _other_ Dean was squatting in front of him, looking on in obvious pleasure, gaining strength from the distress 'he' was causing.

"What the…" John began, awe and confusion muddled together, leaving him speechless.

At the sound of his voice, DemonDean whipped around to greet the new visitor. "Dad, so unexpected of you to drop in. Come here and give us a hug." A smirk reminiscent of Dean's usual caustic attitude spread slowly across DemonDean's face.

One look at the glowing eyes and John put it all together. Fighting the urge to rush to Dean's aid, John eased cautiously forward, uncertain. Before he could pull his thoughts together, DemonDean spoke again.

"Dean, here, finally figured out who the real threat was. It was never you, but himself. He's the key." DemonDean sauntered casually toward John, no longer paying the man in the floor any attention. "But hey, while we're all sharing secrets, got anything you'd like to share with us – _Dad_?"

John saw the brief flicker of surprise in Dean's eyes, then it was quickly replaced by acceptance and something else. His son needed him.

"I didn't come here to hash this out with you…and, you're not my son." John held his ground, neither advancing nor backing away. Steady and solid.

"Come to save them, then?" DemonDean snarled. "Dean and I have been bargaining for little Sammy. What are you prepared to give in exchange for the safety of both sons?" It nodded toward Dean, including Sam by default.

John's eyes flew to his elder son – bleeding, dying on the floor. Dean raised his half-lidded hazel gaze to his dad's, one arm held protectively against his abdomen, the other bracing his weight off the floor.

Dean whispered, "No, Dad…my…fight. Please…don't."

Resolved, John looked back to the demon glowering at them both with his son's face. Taking another step forward, he lifted his chin as he said, "Me. Take me."

The demon cackled his approval of such a request. John gave Dean a sad smile. His son's eyes were wide and frightful. Immediately, Dean began arguing, pleading and cursing.

"No, Dad, don't. Please!" Then he directed his panicked speech to DemonDean, saying, "No, you stay away from him!" Then beckoning to his father again, he added, "Dad, Sammy needs you. I need you _not_ to do this. Not _this_-"

John held up his hands for Dean to stop, saying, "Please, Dean. I'm your father and this is _my_ mess. You're here because of me." Looking down briefly, composing himself before continuing, John said, "Take care of Sammy. Know that I'm proud of the man you've become and grateful for how you've taken care of our family."

At that, Dean began attempting to stand, letting the splintered boards dig into his flesh as he pushed against the wall with his upper arm and shoulder for support. As he scrambled to get to his feet, wincing and grunting with the effort, John's determination faltered and he gave in. With a couple of long strides he was there, gripping one of his son's arms and pulling him the rest of the way up. Dean clutched his father's shirt, wadding the material in his fists.

"You can't do this, Dad. I won't let you," Dean's gruff voice insisted between pants. Dean glared menacingly at DemonDean, grinding out, "I won't let you have them. You've been feeding off of my fear long enough. Sam will never be yours, no matter what you do to me. He's better than that." Then, seemingly to no one, Dean began yelling at the air around them, "Sammy, let go! Save Dad, break the connection. Now, Sam, do it now!"

Catching on quickly, John kept eye contact with his son as he commanded, "Don't listen to him, Sam. This is the only way. Do this for your brother, Son."

Unable to break through Dean's barriers himself, Sam was following the internal struggle from afar, safe in his own body and his own mind. Dean wouldn't let him through, wouldn't have let John through, but he realized too late what was happening when his dad joined their connection. Now, Sam could only participate as a spectator. Unable to intervene with much more than words and feelings, he was helpless and frustrated.

Should he let go and risk losing Dean forever or hang on and risk losing his dad? Was that even possible, could he lose his dad through this bizarre turn of events? There was no sure way to know and he was paralyzed with indecision. How does one choose between their father and their brother?

Sparing Sam from making that decision, Dean unexpectedly shoved his father out of harm's way as he barreled into DemonDean head and shoulders first. At the moment of contact, jagged streaks of lightning shot out from all directions, filling the room with a supernova of light and sound.

Throwing up one hand to shelter his eyes, John could see both Dean and the demon gripping each other inside the column of light, heads thrown back in howls of pain. As he continued to watch, the two figures began to meld together, the lines between them disappearing and becoming less defined.

"Dean!" John cried out.

Nearing the threshold of the light pillar, John could feel the energy sparking off it – making the hair on his body stand at attention. The wall of heat and light would not permit him to get close enough to grab his son, he was helpless to stand and gape as Dean began to take on a bluish-white hue and the demon glowed fiery red – the two colors seeking to cancel out the other.

The room around him began to rattle and creak, the floor beneath his feet rumbling with vibrations, the floorboards jumping in their places. With a mighty gust of wind, John's body was buffeted by the gale-like forces whipping all around him. John looked around, but outside the floorboards and walls of the familiar cabin was an abyss of never-ending blackness, only lit by the stray rays emitting from Dean and the demon's struggle.

John's arms vainly wavered above his head in attempts to ward off the roar of the wind. Stumbling back a little, he called for his eldest once more.

"Dean! Son, can you hear me?!"

Swathed in light, Dean was unable to answer his father's pleas; he was locked in battle for his life and soul – struggling to hang onto both as he and the demon disappeared into each other.

Inside the Inipi, Dean's screams penetrated the silence as his body bucked, that same eerie beam of light now pouring from inside out – banishing the darkness. The surge of energy knocked both Sam and John back, both men bewildered and stunned. The other occupants of the Inipi threw their arms up against the wall of light that burst forth from the convulsing man lying before them. No one had expected this.

TBC

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a/n: I don't know about you guys, but I'm still swooning from the beautiful angst Jensen gave us last night. Another Dean tear and some beautiful shots of those green eyes…ah, how I love those eyes!**

**Yep, got too busy again to reply to all the reviews last time, been agonizing over his chapter for weeks now. Just ask my poor beta readers how many e-mails they've gotten from me, lol. I think I may have taken my frustrations out on poor Dean (i.e. more Dean whumpage). I hope it lives up to your expectations. Again, and as always, thanks for the reviews…they keep me going even when I think I've hit a permanent dead end.**

**Special and abundant thanks to Mady Bay, Tidia, and Claire Kennedy for giving me their help, time and opinions. This story is much better for all of your insights and help. We're in the home stretch ladies.**


	21. Chapter 21: Faith Restored

Chapter 21: Faith Restored

_Inside the Inipi, Dean's screams penetrated the silence as his body bucked, that same eerie beam of light now pouring from inside out – banishing the darkness. The surge of energy knocked both Sam and John back, both men bewildered and stunned. The other occupants of the Inipi threw their arms up against the wall of light that burst forth from the convulsing man lying before them. No one had expected this._

Seeing Sam scrambling toward his brother, John grabbed his younger son's forearm and forcibly pulled him back down, hissing, "Sam, no."

The incredulous young man stared at his father before attempting to rip his arm out of his father's strong grip. "Dean is dying. Let go."

"No, Sam. If you interfere, you could make things worse," John said, tightening his hold, fear for both of his boys making him hesitant.

Looking back at Dean, Sam considered the possibility his dad could be right. His brother's body was still jerking uncontrollably, wracked by seizures and swathed in the mysterious pale light. Blood gushed from his nose as before, but this time, it was accompanied by a trickle of red from his ears as well. _How could things be any worse, _Sam thought._ Dean needs me, I can feel it._ His decision made, he tore his arm away and crawled over to his older brother, scooping him into his arms and settling him against his chest. Dean's head rolled back against his arm, his face contorted in pain.

"Dean, man, can you hear me? Say something!" Sam pleaded as he searched his brother's face for signs of recognition.

Following the young man's cue, John sidled up next to his sons, eagerly hoping that the eldest would favor the younger with a positive response.

The convulsions had finally subsided and Dean was still. After what seemed like an eternity to Sam, his older brother's eyes opened a crack, revealing a soft glowing blue instead of their normal shade of green. Forcing them open more fully, he peered up at his expectant sibling, whispering, "Sammy?"

"Yeah, man. It's me." Sam gently smiled at his brother. The youngest Winchester was determined not to show how freaked out his brother's luminous eyes were making him.

"It's still inside me – I can feel it," Dean breathed, his body shuddering in Sam's arms, sending small tremors rippling into his little brother.

"Dean, listen to me. You can beat it. It's only fighting so hard because it knows its time is up."

Behind them came the sounds of Jay and Joseph chanting as they resumed their fervent prayers, eyes closed and sweat trailing down their bodies. Yet, at that moment, the Winchester brothers were only aware of each other and their father next to them.

Dean nodded once and swallowed hard as, he too, renewed his efforts. His face was pinched in concentration and his body stilled as he reached within for strength and perseverance. Vaguely, Sam was aware of the warring emotions griping his brother – fear, anger, pain and uncertainty. A jab of concern poked at Sam as he realized, despite his brother's strong feelings, his awareness of the elder was barely a pin prick in his consciousness. _What does that mean_, Sam thought, his gut clenching.

Seemingly making up his mind about something, Dean shakily demanded, "Sam, help me up."

"Dean?" Sam couldn't believe what his sibling was asking.

"Just help me up!" Dean snapped sharply, too weak to argue the point.

Instantly, Sam obeyed, gathering his brother up against him and pushing them both upward. The IV tube halted their movement briefly, but suddenly John was there, picking up the bag with one hand as he helped the younger boy keep his balance with the other. Sam spared his father a quick, grateful glance.

Dean was leaning heavily against his little brother, not really standing under his own power, but rather being propped up by Sam's strength alone. Suddenly, the light emanating from him intensified and he growled, "Get out – now!"

Sam struggled to keep them both upright as Dean's head slammed into his shoulder and deep, guttural yells of anguish broke free. The gauze adorning his brother's chest and abdomen bloomed with crimson color, the wounds reopening and soaking it through. Amazingly, both boys remained on their feet as the vaporous image of DemonDean appeared before them.

Glowering angrily, DemonDean jeered, "I see what you are trying to do, but it won't work. It won't be over until he is mine and you are dead." This said to the elder hunter while Sam looked on with horror. It was the transparent image of his older brother, only with _those_ eyes – those familiar, wretched, golden eyes. The younger couldn't help the shiver that snaked up his spine.

With great effort, Dean lifted his head – struggling to stand his full height, ferocity transforming his features. Adrenaline and sheer will made it possible to face his adversary head on.

Dean threatened, his lips twisting with rage, "Just try it."

Unknowingly, the demon had been flanked on either side by Jay and his father, who were still praying furiously, their cadence rising and falling with a tempo older than time itself. The demon shimmered briefly, but kept its ground. Noticing the tenuous way Dean was standing and the effort it was taking to keep that stance, the demon stepped forward until it was nose to nose with the young man, the whitish-blue glow surrounding Dean merging with the eerie red light of the demon. The hunter wavered ever so slightly, but to his credit, kept his position.

With an evil grin, it chided, "Why, Dean, are you threatening me? Because, you know, I never could resist a _challenge_."

"Take it however you want, but you've gotta go through me if you want to get to him," Dean tossed back, voice hoarse with underlying emotion. Sam briefly felt a hint of his sibling's always present self-destructiveness, the part of his older brother that would sacrifice anything for his family.

Alarmed, Sam leaned in and whispered in his brother's ear, never taking his eyes from the demon, "Dean, what are you doing? Stop."

As the chanting rose and quickened, the demon shimmered again faintly, then leaned in closer to Dean and sweetly asked, "That an invitation, soldier? 'Cause it looks to me like you are in no condition to invite trouble."

Dean stood silent, glaring back at it, Sam pressed against his back, one of his little brother's hands still supporting his elbow as he wobbled slightly. Unflinchingly, he waited, refusing to make the first move. The elder boy's face was seething, terrifying to behold, rage etched in every line.

Eager to consume the young man's soul, the demon smirked, "As you wish."

With one step the demon dissipated into Dean, but instead of disappearing, it merged with the hunter's form, much like it had at the cabin. One battled with the other, becoming a twisted menagerie of arms and legs as they fought to override the existence of the other, pulsating in and out of each other. Unexpectedly, the demon found it could not pass through the elder Winchester, nor could it extinguish the young man's radiant essence. The broken, wounded man was somehow keeping it firmly in check.

As the demon continued reaching through one brother in an attempt to get to the other, it howled with the rage of being thwarted – Dean, in turn, howled with the pain of being violated. Quickly, John jerked Sam away from the flexing, stretched fingers that extended through his elder son's back.

Dean stifled his cries long enough to bite out, "You'll…never…have him!"

Ominously, the light surrounding Dean surged, causing the demon to react as if burned – yelping in pain. The Penagasheas continued to chant their supplications as the evil spirit began to blink in and out – much like a fluorescent light not quite making a full connection with the circuit. Slowly, the demon-spirit began to disintegrate as it roared in anger and frustration, its cries taking on a disturbing unearthly quality – its body writhing stubbornly. With one final grunt of defeat, the demon flashed completely out of sight, out of existence – just like someone flipping a light switch – it was gone.

Simultaneously, the light of Dean's spirit also blinked out and the young man crumpled bonelessly to the floor, silent and unmoving. The other men gaped momentarily, both stunned and amazed, before rushing to help the young man. Someone lit a torch and held it aloft as another ran to throw back the door of the lodge. Reaching his brother first, Sam began shaking the elder man and calling out to him.

"Dean, hey man," Sam said as he tapped his brother's cheeks, trying to rouse him, "look at me." Getting no response, terror propelled his heart rate into overtime. Sam yelled at Jay, "Help him!"

Ignoring Sam's panic, the doctor immediately began checking for life signs. Looking nervously from one Winchester to the other, he reached for a blanket and began swabbing down Dean's chest, removing the excess blood so he could begin chest compressions. Understanding what was needed from him, Sam positioned himself to begin giving breaths.

"What's happening?" John's voice boomed, "Why didn't it work?"

Joseph Penagashea came up beside the terrified man and, placing a hand on his shoulder, said, "It did work. The evil spirit is gone. But the fight was hard. Tapped much of Dean's soul energy and reopened his wounds. Strong is this evil and deep was its hold."

Then Jay's father looked up at John, continuing, "Without your son's fierce warrior heart, it would have won, but he fought very hard. His physical body was weakened though, maybe too much so."

John paled further and watched as Jay and Sam continued CPR. Tears sprang to his eyes and his heavy heart constricted until even breathing became difficult.

Seeing his friend's turmoil, Joseph crossed both arms in front of his chest and assured, "But my son is a good doctor, the Great Spirit is merciful, and your son is a fighter. There is hope still yet, John Winchester."

Waiting in between breaths, Sam begged, with tears in his eyes, "Come on, Dean. Man, don't do this."

Then his turn came again and he breathed into his brother's lungs, hoping they'd begin to move on their own this time. They continued on, Dean's blood staining Jay's hands and smudging Sam's face from where they stubbornly worked on the injured man, neither willing to give up long past the normal efforts of trained medical personnel. When the realization of how long they had been working on Dean settled in, tears began streaming freely down John's cheeks and Sam was shouting at his brother in anger and sheer terror.

"Come on, Dean, breathe! You can't do this. Wake up!" Sam slammed his fist into the earth next to his brother's head, wanting to give in to the wetness that pooled behind his lids, but knowing his brother needed him to remain focused and methodical. "Please, Dean, I need you to stay."

Several minutes passed and elder boy remained unresponsive. Coming up behind Sam, John bent low and placed his hands on his frantic child's upper arms and choked out, "Sam, stop. He's gone."

"No…no. He's going to be all right. He has to be," Sam protested. Then he crooned, "I won't give up on you, Dean – I won't."

"Sammy, it's enough!" John shouted and tried to restrain his youngest. "Your brother is dead. Do you hear me? Jay? Man, stop this madness!"

But Jay wasn't ready to give up either. With a resolute shake of his head, he kept working – he wasn't letting Dean die.

Unable to continue watching their useless attempts to revive his elder son, yet not able to squash that last desperate expectation that Dean would some how pull through, John turned his head to the side and scrubbed at his eyes with tremor-ridden hands. His mind wanted to indulge in the hope that Dean would somehow magically come back to them – but, as each second, each minute ticked by, he knew his son was long gone. The grief weighed down on him, pressing in until he thought his sanity would crack under the pressure.

Next to him, he could hear Sam's plaintive murmurs to Dean, his head now resting forehead to forehead with that of his lifeless brother...

oooOOOooo

Wrapped in the arms of an angel unseen, Dean Winchester's soul glowed with warmth and peace for the first time in 23 years. He didn't understand where he was or what was going on, he only knew that he felt loved – unconditionally and fully loved. Then he became aware of a voice speaking in golden, melodic tones.

"Dean, open your eyes and hear me."

Dean opened his eyes and blinked. Confused and curious, he began taking in the landscape unfolding around him. Everything was so beautiful, filled with colors his eyes had never before beheld, so rich and vibrant. Nothing could have ever prepared him for this.

"You're not a believer, are you, Dean Winchester?" the mysterious voice asked.

Instinctively knowing what was being asked of him, Dean bent his head and whispered, "No. How do you believe in good when there is so much darkness _everywhere_?" Even as the words left his mouth, he felt inherent goodness flood in, filling out his dark places and enveloping him in joy and love, warming his spirit – welcoming him openly.

"And yet, here you are." The voice was tender and soothing as it spoke.

Shifting back and forth on his feet, Dean nervously asked, "Where _exactly_ is here?"

"This is _home_, Dean," the voice answered. "But it is not your time…you must go back, now."

"Go back? Go back where?"

"To your family. They still need you. Your job is not complete."

And then, with a rush of remembrance, he thought of Sam and his father. But he was so overcome by the feelings of absolute acceptance and peace of this place that he immediately blurted, "Why bring me here – show me how it could be – only to send me back?"

"So you _could_ believe. So that your faith would be restored."

Sadness and understanding filled Dean's heart as he looked around, still reveling in the magnificence and beauty surrounding him. Dean hung his head as he said, his voice tinged in wonderment, "But, I'm at peace here."

Dean thought he heard a tender chuckle lace the next words spoken to him as the voice said, "This will all still be waiting for you at the end. Are you still willing to fight against those who would devour your soul, who would bring death and darkness to the world, to your family?"

"Always," Dean answered simply.

"This is why you must go back. There are so few of you and so many of them. This _is _yourpurpose."

His own words to Sam so long ago floated across his mind, "_I think he wants us to pick up where he left off. You know, saving people, hunting things...the family business."_

Without fear or hesitation, Dean said with a nod, "Okay. Okay."

And then he was falling, spiraling ever downward, but somehow controlled. That was the last thing he remembered before the blackness came and stole him away…

oooOOOooo

Jay had finally given up on the lifeless body of the young man who had fought so valiantly and was sitting quietly beside the unmoving hunter as his little brother openly sobbed, whispering, "No. No."

Sam sat at the top of his brother's head, bent at the waist – his brow pressed against Dean's. One hand was resting on Dean's shoulder while the other lie fisted near his ear. Sam was desperately trying to make some sort of connection with his brother – kept hoping and praying for some kind of tingle or spark of something – but Dean remained silent and void.

Still, the younger searched, reached and begged. He didn't _really_ believe there was anything left to find. He'd felt the continuous presence of his brother wink out at the very same moment the elder man had fallen to the floor. That's probably why he nearly missed it altogether. _Sam_. Probably his imagination giving him what he wanted – needed – to believe. _Sam_. A little stronger this time…but could it really be? His face crinkled with disbelief as he sat up and stared into Dean's pallid, motionless features. Nothing. Not a twitch, not a sound – but still, Sam hoped. There, just outside the borders of certain knowledge lurked the _idea_ of Dean. A small ember of life, but an ember nonetheless.

"Dean?" He waited and listened, but not with his physical ears. He needed it to be real so badly.But still, he waited

_It'll be okay, little brother._

No longer doubting, he turned to Jay and demanded, "He's back. Help me!"

As Sam knelt next to his brother's body and resumed compressions, the other men sent sad, worried looks at the young man, but none made a move to help him. Instead, they looked at each other, wondering what they should do, how they could best approach the grief-stricken brother without sending him further into the deep end. Jay, who was still sitting next to the younger Winchester, reached out a sympathetic hand toward him. But, Sam was paying no attention, still working furiously on his brother's unresponsive body.

Growing frantic, Sam doubled up his fist and smacked his brother's chest hard, demanding, "Fight, Dean. You promised me you'd fight, now fight, damn it!"

The ember of Dean inside Sam's mind caught into a full-fledged spark, growing stronger and breathing with a life of its own. Looking up deliriously happy, Sam saw the shared looks of pity between the others. His happiness turned to spontaneous anger and exasperation at their disbelief.

John made a move toward his youngest boy, intending to gently extract him from his brother's slack body. Immediately, Sam threw up a hand to stop his father, pinning him with a lethal glare.

"No, you don't understand. I can _feel_ him, he's back. Here-" Sam grabbed Jay's hand and pressed his fingers into Dean's neck, pleading with his stormy eyes.

At first Jay began to pull away without waiting to confirm what he knew wouldn't be there, but something he saw in Sam's face caused him to pause and really feel. Looking up in shock, his face told the story to all pairs of eyes now focused on him. Their expressions turned from hopelessness to bewilderment and finally to expectant optimism as they crowded around.

Throwing blankets across Dean's wounded body, Jay commanded, "Help me get him back to the clinic. Quickly!"

Joyful laughter bubbled up from somewhere inside Sam as he lifted his tear-streaked face to the heavens above and murmured, "Thank you, thank you."

TBC**  
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**a/n: Wow, I bet you all thought I'd forgotten you, huh? Nope, never. I could never forget about all the kindness you have shown me and my humble story by faithfully reading and reviewing. What can I say…I've been swamped and exhausted (sitting down has become a hazardous thing as I seem to zonk out the minute I'm still, lol). Plus, as we near the end of this journey, I find it ever more important to be careful not to screw anything totally up, lol. I hope you continue to enjoy each and every chapter right to the end…which will be sooner than I can believe.**

**Considering I don't have many more opportunities to do this, I want to thank you all again for staying the course and leaving me kind feedback. I don't think this would've come this far without all of you supporting each chapter along. Again, I apologize for not getting out proper individual reviews to each of you, but I'll try to do this time. ;)**

**Special big thanks to Mady Bay and Tidia for the constructive advice and needed corrections. I appreciate all of your efforts to make this a better story and owe you big time.**


	22. Chapter 22: Living with Purpose

Chapter 22: Living With Purpose

Dean was no stranger to pain…no more so than Sam was a stranger to the task of watching and waiting by his brother's hospital bed. The only difference this time was that Dean had actually died. And, of course, instead of being in a hospital, they were in Jay's clinic on the reservation.

It still felt all too familiar, too wrong, and too much. Cold, freshly waxed tile floors beneath Sam's boots, crisp white linens covering his broken brother, an arsenal of sterile medical equipment furnishing the room; plastic tubes inserted into Dean's stilled, unmoving body. Even the rigid, unforgiving chair that Sam had pulled up next to his brother's bedside seemed just like the last one he'd occupied not so long ago. Still, this time _was_ different. Different because, for a while there, Sam had really lost him…really and truly lost his older brother to the unfathomable void that is death.

It was a miracle to have Dean back and the younger Winchester was grateful – yes, _grateful_ – to be sitting in this darkened room in this hard chair waiting as the endless minutes ticked by. And, he'd continue sitting here for however long it took; no one was going to deny Sam that small amount of comfort – not even for much needed sleep. Their father had tried, had been at it all day, hoping to shoo the young man out of the chair toward a much more comfortable bed, but Sam would not be moved. His brother was alive and breathing – his heart beating steadily – and that was all that mattered to him.

His neck getting stiff and sore, he decided to rest it against the back of the chair – the best he could anyway, given that his height made most manufactured things just shy of filling his needs. Wearily, he hunkered lower into the chair and concentrated on Dean's even, regular breathing just a few feet away. It was such a joyful sound, Sam realized.

Closing his eyes, Sam allowed the ghostly wail of the rising wind outside to lullaby him into a fully relaxed state. They'd beat the drastically falling temperatures and inclement weather by about three hours – thank God – but the storm had been raging for nearly two days now. Sam had been awake for the better part of that time, catching naps in the chair, sometimes leaning forward to sleep half-perched on Dean's bedside. It was amazing what positions one could learn to sleep in when the situation called for it.

Drifting and floating – hovering dangerously close to sleep – his mind began replaying the harrowing events through his mind just as it did every time he allowed himself to close his eyes. Dean with ice-blue eyes and the otherworldly glow upon his skin – his terrible wounds pouring his life out onto the ground below. DemonDean with its glaring eyes penetrating and knowing, reaching for Sam, seeking to consume the elder as it did. Then, Dean falling lifelessly to the floor, the brothers' psychic link severed and silent.

Jerking himself upright with a jolt, he realized he'd fallen asleep – if only for a mere moment. Idly, he wondered how long he'd be condemned to carry around this uneasy fear hovering over him – waking with a start, covered in sweat. Blinking the haze from his mind, he remembered hearing something real, not part of the dream. Dean?

Leaning forward, Sam concentrated on his brother, watching for anything resembling a change in the status quo. Just as his tired eyes began to water from staring too hard, too long, Dean rewarded him with a slight twitch of the head. Next, a low, deep moan barely made itself known, bubbling up ever so softly from between his brother's parted lips.

The younger waited a beat, paralyzed by indecision. Should he call out to his brother or just wait and see what happens? Too anxious to forestall the action, Sam's voice broke the stalemate as he rose from his chair.

"Dean?" he called softly, his voice cracking from dryness and disuse. "Hey, man, can you hear me?"

Dean's only response was to slowly roll his head toward him. Sam could see Dean's eyes rolling wildly under his closed lids. Reaching out to him, Sam placed a hand on his brother's shoulder and squeezed his support. The elder's hand tremored with movement as another elicited groan morphed into a single word.

"S-sam."

"I'm here, Dean…right here."

Half-moaning the rest, Dean slurred, "You'll never believe…never believe…"

"Never believe what?" Sam's curiosity was instantly piqued. "Never believe what, Dean?" he repeated.

"Never believe what I've seen…" The words were drawn out slowly, as if breathed in wonder and breathless awe.

Both stunned and confused, the younger brother's brows knitted together as he asked, "Dean, what are you talking about?" Then, as his question hung unanswered, Sam said, "Must be some good drugs, right?"

Sam smirked to himself and was about to withdraw, but Dean's eyes suddenly blinked open – staring unseeingly at the ceiling for a moment, then sliding down to rest on Sam's face. Encouraged, the younger Winchester leaned over his brother and called to him, his heart filling with relief and the unabated thrill of seeing his brother's emerald eyes batting in gradual awareness. Dean continued to blink, trying to clear his mind, as well as his vision.

Finally, he gazed clear-eyed at his little brother and croaked, "Sam?" Then, seeing the younger nod, continued, saying, "Where?"

Seeing his brother's confused anxiety, Sam quickly answered, "Easy, Dean. We're still at Jay's clinic. It's over man. You did it." Sam grew quiet for a moment, then asked, "What do you remember?"

Dean's gaze drifted slightly over Sam's shoulder in thought before resettling on his younger brother.

Clearing his throat, he mumbled, "Demon looked like me…but I beat it to hell…right?"

Seeing his brother's hesitation and unspoken questions, Sam nodded affirmatively again.

"Yeah. Beat it to hell and came out the other side – a little worse for wear – but still in the land of the living," Sam replied with an ear to ear grin. He urgently wanted to ask Dean what it was he wouldn't believe, but pushed it aside and sat on the edge of the bed, asking instead, "Can I get you anything? Should I call Jay or something?"

Sam couldn't help but worry – it was part of his genetic make up.

Trying – and failing – to swallow, Dean hoarsely whispered, "How 'bout a drink. I'm dyin' of thirst, Sammy."

Sam paled at the word "dyin", but jumped up and stammered, "Of course, man. I'll be right back, just stay put."

At that, Dean gave his little brother a quirked, but amused eyebrow that caused Sam's head to fly back in laughter at his own "here's your sign" moment. Quick as a flash the young man was back in with a foam cup filled with iced water, still grinning himself silly.

As he rounded the bed, Sam was saying, "Jay'll be in soon. The nurse said he'd want to check in on you now that you're awake."

Setting the cup on the bedside table, Sam pushed a couple of buttons to raise Dean's bed and then grabbed his sibling under the arm to help him scoot up. Wincing with pain, Dean grunted as he struggled into a better position. He was grateful for the extra help as his arms felt rubbery and useless. His hands were too shaky to manage the cup, so Sam reached out and steadied it for him, the tricky straw waving unpredictably over the top. Soon the straw was making slurping sounds as the liquid disappeared and the hollow tube filled with nothing but air.

"More?" Sam raised his eyebrows inquiringly and then hurried off for a refill at Dean's expectant, eager nod.

Left alone with his thoughts, Dean closed his eyes and took stock of his present situation. There was an IV line hooked to his left arm, a pulse oximeter on his right, middle finger, a blood pressure cuff, and an assortment of wires connecting him to the heart monitor. At least this time, instead of the ventilator, there was only a nose cannula giving him oxygen support. Hearing the sleet's staccato beat on the window pane, he wondered how long he'd been out. The only other sounds in the room were the occasional beeps that kept constant track of his heart rate and the whoosh of hot air spilling forcefully from the overhead vents. The room was quiet and dim.

Although he could breathe a little easier than before, he could still feel splintering pain ripple across his chest with every breath he took. His body was overwhelmed by fatigue and weakness that left him feeling vulnerable and breathless. But the inner battles had ceased, the unseen enemy had been expelled, and, despite the raw pain, Dean could almost say he felt peaceful. Almost – but not quite, because now he realized a new concern was resting squarely on his shoulders.

He had always known that Sam's safety was his responsibility, his duty even, but it had never occurred to him that he was all that was standing between Sam and Evil. The idea that he might be all that kept his younger sibling from being used by the very enemy their family had long fought – from becoming a part of that evil – left him unsettled and terrified.

That he was the key in safeguarding Sam's soul was ironic at the very least. Dean had always felt that it was _Sam's_ goodness that had sheltered him from his own inner darkness, keeping it in check. Somehow, in some kind of cosmic twist of fate, the two brothers canceled out the worst in each other, bringing forth the good that would eventually be needed to battle the demon and his plans. Ironic, but somehow right – which is why he needed to be here now, alive and well.

Shaking his head, Dean tried to change the direction of his thoughts. He wasn't ready to deal with what the demon had revealed or what had happened to him during the moments that he'd been dead. It was too much to sort out and he was exhausted. The sharp and incessant burning in his chest was all that was keeping the oblivion of sleep at bay. Dean began wondering what was keeping Sam and he longed for his brother's soothing company. As if granted through some magical wish, Sam's tousled head appeared around the corner, closely followed by Jay.

"Hey, there," Jay began, "welcome back, stranger. You really know how drum up the drama."

Eyes cast down, Dean nodded, a small embarrassed smile whispering across his lips.

"So, how are you feeling?" Jay asked, sitting beside Dean and beginning a cursory examination of his patient.

"Not bad, considering," Dean replied, his voice still weak and rough.

Eyebrows raised for emphasis, Jay agreed, "Considering? That's the understatement of the century. On a scale of ten, what's your pain level right now?"

Dean mulled it over before saying, his lips pursed, "Six? – but I'm fine, really."

"Well, I'd wager you're far from fine, but you will be – in time. Your lungs are much clearer now, the infection is nearly gone and your fever has come down to a manageable level; but your wounds did open up again, so there's going to be more pain than what your lungs alone can cause. I suspect the shortness of breath will continue for a quite a bit."

The older man knew this wasn't what Dean wanted to hear, but he wanted him to understand that his body had been pushed past its limits and he'd still need plenty of rest to finish healing.

Compassion, but no hint of anything else in his face, Jay continued, "As for the weakness, that's just going to take some time. You'll probably notice that you'll tire easily for a while. Your body went through a lot of trauma and you shouldn't expect to bounce back right away. Still, everything is looking good and I'd say you're well on the road to recovery. I'm prescribing something for the pain as well as a course of antibiotics just to make sure you don't get any secondary infections."

"Thanks, Doc. When do you think I can get out of here?" Dean asked as he watched Jay scribbling on his chart.

"Oh, I'd say another two or three days." Jay looked up and smiled before asking, "Until then, is there anything we can do for you?"

"No, I'm good." Looking around briefly, Dean asked, "Where's Dad?"

"He's downstairs getting his cast removed," Sam supplied. "Jay tried talking him into leaving it on another week, but he was adamant," Sam cast a knowing look at the doctor.

Nodding, Jay commented, "Yes, your father is a very stubborn man. Maybe not as stubborn as Sam, here, but it's a close race."

Sam threw up his hands in mock offense, saying, "Ooh, harsh! I'm hurt, man."

Looking back to Dean, Jay informed, "Your brother hasn't slept in a real bed for a couple of days, now. You might see if you can get further with him than we could."

Looking at his brother with unhidden concern, the young hunter narrowed his eyes and growled, "Sam."

"What?" Sam pretended innocence. "My big brother needed me, and besides, I slept – just not in a bed. It's no big deal."

Sighing heavily, Dean rested his head back onto his pillow and pinched the bridge of his nose. Holding the position, he said, barely audible, "Right, because college boys don't need sleep."

Taking note of Dean's sudden weariness, the other two men exchanged concerned looks with one another.

"He's not the only one," Jay stated. "You need to get some more rest as well; it'll help you heal faster. I'll send in a nurse to give you something for the pain and to help you sleep. I'm gonna go see how your dad's coming along and I'll check in on you in a couple of hours. Later, boys."

Dean relaxed his arm back down to his side and, without lifting his head, glared at Sam.

"All right, I get it," Sam defended. "After you fall asleep, I'll lay down, okay?"

"I'll be fine, Sam. I don't need a nursemaid – especially not one that's six foot four and dopey looking."

Ignoring the jibe, Sam hesitantly replied, "Yeah, I know. But maybe this is where I _want_ to be."

Reading between the lines, Dean gave his sibling a short nod, but didn't say more. It was obvious that Sam had been shaken pretty badly and, if the situations had been reversed, the older man knew he'd feel the same way.

Breaking the quiet, Sam mused, "You know, Dad's been different since…all this."

Blinking his eyes back open, Dean grimaced and asked, "Different? Different, how?"

"Well, you know, he's been worried – naturally – but it's more than that. If I didn't know the man better..." Shaking his head, Sam let the thought hang unfinished, then continued with a sigh, "I don't know, man. I got the feeling that, even though he knew the demon was gone, he was afraid that you might not pull through."

"And, even though he didn't _want_ to leave your side, he never pushed the issue when the nurses requested that only one of us stay after certain hours. Dad always pushes – especially with me." Running a hand through his overgrown locks, Sam finished, "He's been quiet…no mention of plans or schemes…or anything, really. What do you make of that?"

Before Dean could respond, the nurse bustled in, cheerily humming to herself. Whatever he'd been thinking was left shrouded in mystery because, after much fussing and prodding, the nurse pushed the new meds into his IV – leaving behind one very groggy Winchester brother. Dean tried to keep his eyes pushed open, but every time he succeeded, there'd be two Sams swirling in front of him – accentuating the pitching room around him.

Rubbing at his eyes, Dean commented, "Dude, that stuff works fast."

Seeing his brother fighting the effects of the medicine – but losing – Sam gently patted the elder man's shoulder and said, "Don't worry about it – it's probably nothing. We can talk later."

The words were barely out before Dean's breathing became deeper and his head drooped lazily on the edge of his pillow. Reaching over to adjust the pillow more securely under his brother's head, Sam couldn't resist giving the other man's chest a soft pat – his need to make contact with his sibling strong and undeniable, even if it was unusual behavior for a Winchester. He then pulled up the covers, letting his fingers linger at Dean's shoulder a couple of seconds longer than he'd ever admit to.

A mixture of pride and gratitude filled Sam's face as he watched his brother sleep. Although his heart still caught at the sight of Dean's pallid and ragged appearance, he believed in his heart that his sibling was so much stronger than any of them, always rising to the direst challenge. He couldn't imagine life without him…and didn't want to even try.

Limping in on Sam's old cane, John joined his younger son, clasping a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, how's he doing?" John rumbled.

Glancing at his father, Sam answered, "Jay says he's doing remarkably well for a man who died only two days ago. You know Dean, he insists that he's fine."

Peering at Sam suspiciously, John asked, "And, you? How are you doing? You look beat, Son."

Sam released a heavy sigh and answered, "Yeah, I guess I am. Listen, Dad, do you mind sitting with him while I go lay down. I don't want him to be alone."

Startled by Sam's sudden agreeability, John said, "Sure, I'll stay. Go ahead, go catch some shut eye."

"Yeah," Sam said, stifling a yawn. "And, Dad…thanks."

John smiled at his younger son and nodded. "Hey, Sam?"

The younger Winchester turned, face open and questioning, "Yeah?"

"I just wanted you to know that I'm glad you're both all right…and, you both did good."

Stunned and unsure of how to reply, Sam simply muttered, "Uh…thanks."

After Sam was gone, John took up residence in the abandoned chair. Pulling it closer to Dean, John sank wearily and gratefully into it. His leg was sore from the overwork and his energy reserves were depleted. Stress and adrenaline rushes will do that to you. Even so, he wished he'd made it back up in time to catch his son awake. He desperately wanted to see it for himself. It was so hard to keep watching him motionless and ashen under the sheets.

Heaving a great sigh, John bent his head to meet his hand propped up on the chair's arm. Massaging his temple in slow circles, he kept going over everything in his mind. _What comes next? _he kept thinking. After all he nearly lost, after everything he'd seen his sons suffer through, what should his next move be?

For once in his life, John Winchester was at a loss. While he felt a great sense of relief that Sam and Dean were safe for the time being, he couldn't help but feel beaten. This was his responsibility – _they_ were his responsibility. Their safety was in his hands and the choices to be made were going to be tough. They might not understand. How could he make them understand?

His heart heavy and his mind reeling, John sat in the quiet of his son's hospital room and wondered why there must always be a choice made between the desires of your heart and the weighty burden of duty.

oooOOOooo

"Sam? Sam, wake up."

Cracking his eyes open, Sam peered up into the solemn face of his father. John looked grim…and broken.

Sitting up with his heart in his throat, Sam asked, "Dad, what is it?"

His chin quivering only slightly, John laid his large hand on his son's shoulder and said, "I'm sorry, Son, but its Dean. I don't know what happened. He was fine and then…"

"Dad," Sam began, terror gripping his insides, "what are talking about? What's wrong?"

Looking reluctant to go on, John took a steadying breath as he said, "Dean passed away while you were sleeping. He was fine, and then something happened and…he was just gone." A singular tear slipped down the elder man's face and splashed somewhere below.

"No! No, that can't be. He was just fine. No, no, no, no..."

Sam trailed off, not believing what he was hearing. No, this was just too much, it couldn't be. They'd fought too hard, things weren't supposed to be like this. It just couldn't be.

"Sam! C'mon, Son, wake up!" John's voice again, sharp this time.

_What is going on?_ Sam thought, confused. Wasn't he awake already? Surprisingly, Sam found himself cloaked in darkness. He struggled toward the surface, feeling choked by panic and unable to breathe. With a rush, light and sounds came pouring in as his senses shifted and became attuned. Opening his eyes, he saw his dad standing over him just as before, his face looking worried and his hands on each of Sam's arms. Then, remembering, he bolted upward, throwing off his covers and pushing John aside.

"Dean. I want to see Dean." Sam's movements were jerky and laden with deep sleep and his fumbling fingers didn't want to work as he tried to exit the bed.

John pushed him back, saying, "Sam, relax. Dean's fine. I just left him a few minutes ago to come check on you. He was sitting up when I left him."

Looking confused, Sam brushed his hair out of his eyes and beseeched his father, asking, "Dean's okay?"

"Yeah. You've been asleep for nearly thirteen hours," John offered as explanation for his presence in Sam's room.

"Oh," Sam answered, still blinking away the hazy nightmare.

Feeling his responses slowing to normal, Sam rubbed at his eyes with both hands before attempting to get back up. This time, John stepped aside and allowed it.

Looking at his son sideways, John asked, "You all right?"

"Uh, yeah. I just need to see Dean."

Then Sam pushed passed his father without elaboration and left the room. Trailing behind, John wondered how long it would be before his youngest would be able to sleep without being tormented by nightmares of his brother. This, of course, only made what he had to do next all the more difficult. Still lagging behind Sam, he mentally rehearsed what he had to say one last time. It was going to be tough, no two ways about it. But now was as good a time as any. John's stomach flip-flopped as the neared his elder son's room and what needed to be said couldn't be put off any longer. He loathed the confrontation that was to come.

By the time they entered his room, Dean's green eyes were lit up with worry, making them appear dark and predatory. All hints of it were quickly tamped out as he raised his eyes in greeting – emotions closely guarded once again. John couldn't help but wonder how Dean had known that something wasn't right with his little brother. _Their internal connection must be up and running full force_, he thought to himself.

Before either Sam or John had time to speak, Dean gruffly demanded, "What is it?"

Giving his brother a lopsided, nervous smile, Sam answered, "It's…nothing. Just woke up and still got cobwebs, 's all."

Dean accepted the excuse with a nod, not really buying into it, but giving Sam his out. John watched as Dean discreetly scrutinized his sibling's behavior, ever alert and discerning of Sam's every move and tone. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, the older brother relaxed and allowed his characteristic half-smile, half-smirk to chase away the serious moment. The boys quickly lapsed into small talk, trying for a semblance of normalcy, determined to push forward past the nightmare they'd been living.

John continued to watch their interaction, always picking up on the subtle way Sam's face would change when Dean would grimace with pain or stop to catch his breath during their conversation. This, of course, would just force Dean to try harder to hide the pain and make light of his breathlessness, whatever it took to ease his brother's face back into a smile again. This is the way it had always been with them, but even more so now. At least they had each other.

As the brothers talked, they tried to coax the older man into joining their ramblings, and although John smiled at the right times and responded appropriately, it was obvious that his mind was elsewhere. It was difficult to ignore the quiet, determined air surrounding their father and, finally, they too fell into an awkward silence that blanketed the room with tension.

Dean was the one who broke the silence, looking unflinchingly at his dad, and asking, "So, what's up?"

His face closed, John replied, "You sure you're ready to hear it. You're not going to like it."

Eyebrows raised and face set, Dean quipped, "Well, that's encouraging. Go on."

"As soon as we get you checked out of here and settled in at Missouri's, I'm leaving."

John braced himself for what he knew would come next. Speaking at the same time, the boys protested.

From Dean came, "Leaving? C'mon, Dad, why?"

And Sam interjected with, "I knew it. I knew you were planning something. What is it, Dad? You going after the demon without us? What happened to "we're better as a team?"

"Look, boys, I don't expect you to agree with this. But, I do expect you to listen and do as I ask." Holding up a hand to stifle Sam's arguments, John continued, "Let's not argue. Please, Sam…just listen."

Hands on his hips and his face thunderous, Sam relented with a shift of his weight and allowed John to continue.

"First of all, I'm not going after the demon. Not yet, anyway. I just need some time to figure things out. Plus, I figure it'll be harder to hit us with a full-on strike if we split up. Like it or not, this thing is coming after us. Maybe not tomorrow or next week, but eventually it will."

"All the more reason to stay together then," Sam tried to reason.

Pacing to the end of Dean's bed, John began gesturing with his hands, his voice picking up tempo as he spoke.

"We aren't ready for it. I think we all know that by now and…I'm going to do whatever it takes to keep you boys safe. I can't go through this again. Dean, I've nearly lost you twice. Next time, it could be Sam. I've seen what could happen, and I don't want it. Do you hear me? I don't _want_ it."

John paused for moment, gathering his thoughts and taking a breath. Both boys remained silent, sensing his agitation, but John knew they were staved off like a dam near its breaking point.

Looking up at both his boys, sadness filling his face and voice, he pleaded, "If I thought this damn thing would just leave us alone, would just go away…"

Voice cracking with underlying emotion, he stopped to swallow before continuing, "But it's not – at least, not until we stop it. I've got some friends, friends who might be able to help. I'm going to see what I can dig up on this specific demon, what hurts it, if it can be weakened. I just need some time to figure this all out and I don't want to be worrying about the two of you. I can't lose either of you."

Unable to prevent himself, Sam burst out, "But, Dad, we can help you. Let us help you."

Dean stayed quiet – watching, listening, his pallor wan but his face resigned.

"No, Sam," John responded. "Dean isn't up to traveling right now. He needs time to heal and I want you with him. I promise, I won't go after the demon without talking to you both first. Just let me go, for now. I need to do this for us."

"Dad, you're not so well yourself, you know. You just got out of the cast last night. Just come with us back to Missouri's. We can do some research from there. She can help us."

Sam was trying to understand, but he wouldn't be told what to do and he certainly didn't have to agree.

Quietly, Dean spoke up, "Dad, look, I'm good. I'm ready to go. Don't let that be the reason…"

John sighed and placed a hand in his hair, saying, "Dean, you need time to heal – you're _not_ ready for this. Please understand, even if you were ready, I'd still feel the same way. The best way to protect you is for me to leave. I'm not saying that I won't be back, but when I come back it'll be with answers."

Just before Sam was able to erupt into a tirade, Jay knocked on the door, announcing his presence.

"Am I interrupting something?" The dark-skinned man smiled knowingly as he entered the room.

Jay immediately felt the unease of the other men and noted how Sam refused to meet anyone's eyes, muscles jumping in his jaw. Dean, however, wouldn't take his eyes off John, looking at him intently as if he was afraid the man might disappear if he were to blink.

"No, come on in." John was grateful for the interruption. He knew there was nothing he could say to make this right for the boys. _Maybe someday they'll understand,_ he kept thinking.

"Is everything all right, fellas?" Jay asked, hoping to diffuse some of the unease.

"No," Sam spat. "Dad's planning on going off on his own again. As soon as he dumps us off onto Missouri."

"Sam," John warned, exasperation creeping into his voice and mannerisms.

Striding around the bed to stand opposite the youngest Winchester, Jay said, "Yes. Your father mentioned his plans to me. I understand how you feel, Sam…and, I know your dad has made some mistakes, but I think this time he's right. Dean needs time to heal and splitting up will lessen the odds of an attack. This can't be delayed any longer. The demon is cunning and powerful and won't be put off. But, if it makes you feel any better, I'm going with him."

Surprised, Dean gaped at Jay for a split second. _What the-_

"The hell you are! I'm not involving you in this, too. I'm not having any more deaths on my head." John had squared himself off, digging his heels in. "Besides, your father and this clinic need you."

"Well, as a matter of fact, the clinic can run just fine without me; we've got a great staff, plenty of new blood. As for my father, he's got other sons. He'll be fine. And, my own life is mine to guard, John Winchester."

"No," John reiterated.

"Okay, let's look at it this way. You don't want Sam and Dean tagging along until you're sure you can keep them safe. They don't want you out there with no one to watch your back. If I go, everyone's happy…or as close to it as Winchesters can be. Besides, I still owe you."

Not giving his dad a chance to deny their new friend, Dean intervened, saying, "Wait a minute, Dad. He's right. If you let Jay go with you…Sam and I'll be good with that, right, Sammy?"

Dean fixed Sam with his best begging – but not – face, his green eyes as close to pleading for a truce as Dean Winchester ever got to pleading for anything.

Still angry, but willing to keep the peace – even if it was just for Dean's sake – Sam begrudgingly jerked his head in a short nod.

"Well, then," Jay concluded, "now that that's settled, I've got a surprise for you all."

Going back to the doorway, Jay leaned out and retrieved a serving cart, wheeling it into the room with flair. Lifting some lids, he revealed a breakfast fit for a king. Pancakes, home-made syrups, eggs, bacon, ham, hash browns and a pot of coffee graced the cart.

Grinning madly at their shocked faces, Jay proclaimed, "Breakfast is served. Compliments of the nursing staff and my family. Shall we eat, gentlemen?"

With that announcement, tempers, worries and fears were put aside and the Winchester men shared a rare moment of togetherness over the meal provided. It felt good to be together as a family, however fleeting it might be, and they cherished it while they could.

Epilogue coming soon**...  
**

* * *

**a/n: Thanks to all of you who have not only stuck with this monster for so long, but also to those of you have reviewed so faithfully. You'll never know how much I've enjoyed reading all of them. **

**In addition to my regular gushing thanks to Mady Bay and Tidia for keeping me straight in all things, I'd also like to add a special thanks to Kohadril for taking time to look over the first half of this and making some much needed suggestions. Can never say thank you enough to the betas – they put up with a lot from me.**

**Oh, and apologies for taking so long. First, I was sick for about two weeks and then I just lost my momentum and got stuck. Thank you all for being so patient.**

**Note: The "Here's your sign" moment I referred to is a gimmick used by comedian Bill Engvall for all the obviously stupid things we all say from time to time. **


	23. Epilogue

Epilogue

**a/n:** Some of the events of this final chapter refer back to the end/beginning of chapters 9 and 10.

_With that announcement, tempers, worries and fears were put aside and the Winchester men shared a rare moment of togetherness over the meal provided. It felt good to be together as a family, however fleeting it might be, and they cherished it._

"Hey, Son, how're you feeling?"

John Winchester stood in the doorway, looking down at his elder son. Briefly, John had a flash of the last time Dean had occupied that same chair – reared back in agony, limbs going stiff, bloodied nose and his face mangled with pain. It still caused his face to drain, heart lurching painfully. He shook the memory off and smiled at his son.

"I'm good. How 'bout you? That leg doing okay?" Dean's eyes held John's, refusing to let them escape.

"Yeah…yeah, it's fine. I'm fine." The sentence trailed off and hung awkwardly.

Dean was trying hard to ignore his dad's duffle sitting on the floor, packed and ready to go. But the time for denials had passed and he knew it. This was goodbye.

"So," Dean started, "when's Jay supposed to be here?"

Rubbing the back of his neck as he checked his watch, John answered, "Any minute now. I wanted a chance to talk to you before I go." John's face was a mixture of sadness and some other emotion that Dean couldn't identify.

"Listen, Son, I'm gonna do everything I can to make this right. Okay? I'll be careful and Jay'll have my back, so no worries."

Eyes flicking to his hands as they rested in his lap, Dean responded with a whispered, "Yeah, I know. It's just…I just wanted us to be a family again. You know?" He lifted his eyes back up to his dad's only to be shocked to find his father's rich brown eyes swimming in an ocean of unshed tears.

"Yeah, me, too. Look, Dean…I just wanted to say…I know I've let you and your brother down. I haven't been there for you like I should've been. But, I want you to know how proud of you I am."

John's voice hitched with emotion as he said, "You've done everything for this family – taken care of me and Sammy, watched our backs all these years. It was a lot to ask of anyone, but you were always willing to give of yourself. I couldn't be more proud to call you my son."

Uncomfortable, Dean shifted his eyes back to his lap, lifting one shoulder to indicate it was no big deal.

"No, Son, it means a lot. Thank you for doing that. Thank you for being there for Sam when I wasn't. Thank you for forgiving me despite all the times I've screwed up."

"Dad," Dean protested, "you did the best you could."

John walked over and squatted next to Dean's chair, laying one hand on the young man's forearm.

"Yeah, I did, but I know I've demanded too much from you. I just didn't see any other way at the time…maybe I just didn't see it at all, but I see it now."

Meeting his dad's warm, love-filled gaze, Dean asked, "Dad, why are you saying this stuff?"

Smiling at the innocence of his son – innocent because he couldn't see his own worth, couldn't see what he'd done for all of them – and he said, "Because there are no guarantees, Dean. There are no guarantees in life and I want you to know how I feel. I want you to know that you've made a difference in all our lives."

Dean didn't know what to say. Couldn't have said anything if he'd had the words, his throat was constricted too tight and it was taking all of his concentration to keep the tears from spilling over.

John squeezed his son's arm affectionately before standing.

"You take care of yourself, Son. I want you and Sammy to stay safe above all else. You hear me?"

"Yeah, okay. You, too. Don't take any unnecessary risks, Dad. Just…just come back." Dean's voice trembled.

"I will, Son." John stood, sniffing loudly and brushing at one of his stray tears. "Goodbye, Dean."

Dean could only nod as his father snatched the duffle and stepped out the door, anticipating the second blast from Jay's car horn before it sounded from the driveway. The door clicked shut and Dean felt his heart rend in half. His throat convulsed and his hands shook from the effort of stifling the tide of emotion. One choked half-sob was all he allowed himself in response to his father's words and sudden absence. Never had he loved and feared for his father more than at this very moment.

Standing behind him, unseen, Sam felt his own heart wrench. Sam could take a lot of things, had taken a lot of things, but this was hard to swallow. He knew the ripples of pain burning at the edge of his senses were only a fraction of what Dean must be feeling. Their connection was still birthing itself, still too new for much more than that. Still, it was enough to motivate him into action even though he knew Dean would slap on the stoic face as soon as he made his presence known. It didn't matter, he couldn't take this.

"You okay," Sam asked, finally finding his voice.

His brother's head jerked up in surprise, and for a moment their liquid eyes met.

Clearing his voice, Dean answered, "Yeah. You?"

In that single word, Sam knew that his brother was really asking if their dad had said a proper goodbye to him as well.

"Yeah. I'm good. Dad and I talked earlier, before he came in here." Sam laughed softly, humorlessly. "Told me he was proud of me, can you believe that?"

Dean gave his sibling a shaky smile and nodded his head, saying, "Yeah."

Coming the rest of the way into the room, Sam plopped down onto the couch opposite Dean.

"I'm gonna miss him, man." A harsh chuckle followed the statement. "Hard to believe, I know."

"Not really. You and Dad, you're just too much alike is all."

Sam pressed his lips together and blocked the surge of feelings, but he couldn't stop the tremble in his chin and looked away. After a few minutes of hard swallowing and hasty sniffles that were passed off as 'must be getting a cold or something', the boys looked at each other with easy smiles in their eyes and on their lips. Reassuring each other that things were fine – they were fine – in those simple looks, both knowing what the other was feeling in that moment.

oooOOOooo

As promised, John had waited long enough to bring Dean home to Missouri's, making sure he was settled in and doing well before saying goodbye to them two days later. Even though it had only been six days since he'd told the boys goodbye, it had felt like an eternity. They had agreed to keep contact limited for safety purposes, but the not knowing what was happening made the hours and days drag by slowly. It didn't help that the boys had little to fill their days and nights with.

They had tried to settle into a routine, but it was difficult. Both itched to be doing something, anything to get their minds off of their father. Dean wasn't well enough to hunt yet and Sam's remote research yielded very little on the demon. Finally, they resigned themselves to scouring the internet for possible future jobs, taking the time to catalogue them by perceived urgency and location.

During this time, Sam's concern for his older brother only increased, despite Dean's gains in physical health. The elder Winchester had become oddly reserved, quiet and thoughtful. Often Sam would catch him staring off into the distance, lost to the world, face pulled tight. Naturally, if asked, Dean would laugh and smirk his way through it, resisting every ploy Sam used to get him to open up. Exasperated, Sam was determined to get to the bottom of it and had decided on the direct route the very next time the opportunity presented itself.

Before he was able to launch his attack, however, a new problem took precedence over all other concerns. Dean began having nightmares again. Although they were obviously not demon spawned this time, they were enough to garner Sam's attentive wariness, much to Dean's displeasure.

At first, Dean wasn't even aware that he was having the dreams; a vague awareness of having not slept well was his only clue. Then, Sam began complaining about his brother's nocturnal tossing and turning – always with a prodding tone and concerned furrows between his brows indicating that little brother was beginning to get worried.

Soon, the dreams began to manifest themselves in more alarming ways, causing Dean to awaken suddenly – breathlessly – but not remembering why. Some nights he'd jerk awake and find himself covered in sweat and left with a lingering pervasive sadness that he couldn't seem to shake – not even with the light of day.

One week to the day of the first one's occurrence, Dean got his first clear picture of what the dream had been holding back. It seared his memory so he'd not soon forget. It started out as the blessed nothingness of a sound sleep, which was always a good thing in Dean's book, but then he drifted into a gradual awareness of his surroundings – surroundings that were all too familiar.

He recognized the same empty streets from his dream at the hospital, just after the car accident. This time, however, it was acutely different in that, not only was he cognizant of the fact that he was dreaming, but he remembered it from before and knew it was so much more than just a dream. He knew exactly which building he was looking for, which hallway the blue door was located in and he knew there was a golden-haired spirit waiting for him there.

As he moved down the darkened hallway toward the halo of light spilling out onto the hideous carpeting, he felt no fear of what lay beyond, just a subtle tugging of longing and need. But, not his. It was hers. Her longing, her need. Her sadness weighed heavily on him, becoming his sadness just the same as if the feelings were his.

Reaching for the doorknob, he pulled the door the rest of the way open and allowed himself to become swathed in the rich, brilliant light that momentarily left him blinded. Stepping inside, he squinted at the lone figure at the window as she turned toward him, the folds of her dress whispering secrets to the air.

Raising one hand, beckoning him, she said, "Dean, you've come back."

"Who are you? What do you want?" he asked, closing the distance between them.

"Your help. You are the only one that can help me," she said, the light dimming and the mists clearing to reveal her identity.

All Dean could do was gape and stutter, shock making his body rigid and frozen to the spot.

"J-jessica!" he finally managed to gasp, his throat seizing on the single word.

Moving quickly to his side, she lay what was meant to be a comforting hand on his arm, seeking to calm him. With that contact, the floor suddenly pitched under his feet as crippling pain exploded behind his eyes, causing his legs to crumple from beneath him.

Catching him under his armpits, Jessica fell to the floor with him, unable to support his weight with her tiny frame. Dean was aware of his name being screamed repeatedly as blood began to drip from his nose, marring the pristine white of her gown, then his vision faded to black.

Awakened by the sounds of his brother thrashing against his bed sheets and moaning softly, Sam sat up and draped his long legs over the side of the bed. Scrubbing his hands over his face and through his hair, he forced his eyes open. How he longed for a complete night's rest.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

Dean's voice startled him momentarily, jarring him fully into wakefulness. Looking over at the other man, Sam could see his brother's features grimacing in the moonlight. He stood and walked the couple of steps to his brother's bed, intending to shake him awake.

Just as he bent to touch Dean's shoulder, his brother whispered, "J-jessica!"

The younger Winchester's face drained and his body trembled as if blasted by a cold winter wind. Before he could recover, the elder man jack-knifed into a sitting position, chest heaving and hands fisted in his short brown hair, pained moans bubbling up from his chest.

As soon as the younger man gripped his brother's wrists, the cries ceased and Dean weakly fell forward into his sibling's arms. Sam steadied him, and then eased his brother back onto the pillows, mounding them up as he went and then turned to flip on the bedside lamp. Feeling warm wetness oozing from his nose, Dean dabbed at his face with his hand.

"Dean, you're bleeding," Sam yelped, seeing the blood for the first time. "Here."

Grabbing a tissue from the nightstand, Sam handed it to his brother and then began examining the other man's face.

"Are you all right?"

Still feeling woozy and light headed, Dean only nodded.

"What was that, Dean? And, why were you saying Jess's name?"

Sighing, Dean replied, "I-I don't know."

"Was that the same dream you've been having? What happened? Was it a dream or something else?" Sam fired back.

"Dude, one question at a time," Dean snapped. He still felt agitated, off-center, and Sam's grilling only heightened the sensation.

Taking in his brother's sallow features and unsteady hands, Sam stilled his panic at hearing Jessica's name and forced himself to back off – at least a little bit.

"Dean, we have to talk about this."

Peering at his brother with one open eye, Dean said, "No, we really don't." Reading Sam's body language loud and clear, he continued, "Look, there's really nothing to talk about. I had a dream and Jessica was in it. I don't know anything else."

"But, why would you start having nightmares about Jess? This is why you haven't been sleeping, isn't it?"

Dean raised his head from his pillows – tossed the tissue aside – and said, "Aw, Sam, why can't you just let it go. I don't know. It's possible. Honestly, I. Don't. Know."

"I think this is more than just a simple dream. You had a similar reaction when Dad touched you before he was cleansed by the smudging…and, now that I think of it, you had this exact same response in the hospital after the accident. Is Jess the ghost girl, Dean? Is she trying to talk to you? Answer me, man, this is important."

As his brother's voice droned on, the older man's head began to fill up with fuzziness and he could feel tension coiling inside, building along with the buzzing in his ears. His senses were doing double time and overloading to the point of being excruciatingly painful.

With each word assaulting his ears, Dean could feel the strong emotions radiating off of his brother, combining with his own supersensitive state and making it sickening in its aftermath. The world had become too vivid, its sounds too loud, its colors too bright and his skin was too thin to withstand it. His brain and spinal cord practically hummed with sensations.

Before he could answer any more questions, he felt his stomach wretch with spasms – sending Dean scrambling away from his bed _and _his bewildered brother. When Sam caught up to him, he found his brother doubled over the toilet coughing and gagging. Finally, Dean sat back on his haunches, his limbs shaking uncontrollably, rendering him helpless.

Crouching in front of his sagging brother, Sam felt the elder man's forehead and then, finding it surprisingly cool, asked, "Dean, what is it? Talk to me."

His voice quivering with the shakes, Dean answered, "Just can't take the questions right now, Sammy. Sorry."

Waving a hand limply in front of him, he continued with a smirk, "Everything is…too loud, too bright. Kinda feels like a hang over without the perks."

Nodding, but not really comprehending, Sam grabbed Dean's upper arms, saying, "Okay, let's get you back to bed."

Dean settled into his bed with a grunt then turned weary eyes to Sam. "I don't know what's going on, Sam, but one thing I do know – we'll figure this out. I promise, okay. I'll make this right."

As much as Sam wanted – needed – to know about Jessica, he wanted his brother to be okay more. And Dean looked beat, really beat. His brother's face was stricken and blotchy and the shaking hadn't ceased or eased at all. The younger man decided to let it go, at least for now. Making sure Dean was okay was more important.

"Yeah, okay. Whatever it is, I trust you, Dean. Are you sure you're okay? Should I wake Missouri?" Sam asked, knowing the answer as he did.

"No, I'll be fine…just need to sleep. So tired…"

And, surprisingly, he was. Despite all the shaking and sensory perceptions, Dean was exhausted beyond belief. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and just lay still.

"We'll talk in the morning, then. Get some sleep…just yell if you need me."

Sam didn't get a response, nor was he expecting one, but as he clicked off the light, he really wished Dean had looked a little steadier or had provided another reassuring word before nodding off so fast.

The younger Winchester climbed back into his own bed, his heart thundering and his mind racing and knowing he wouldn't sleep another wink that night. Taking one last look at his brother across from him, now less visible in the moonlit room when compared to the glaring lights of a few seconds before, he shook his head at the darkness and then flung one arm over his eyes, concentrating all his attention on listening.

Hearing Dean's uneven breathing, he wondered how concerned he should really be. Then, feeling almost traitorous, he thought of Jess and how she died. A million thoughts circled through his mind. What if it was really her? What if she was in trouble? Was she haunting them or just attracted to Dean's newfound abilities.

Maybe she was trying to send them a message. Or, worse, maybe it wasn't her at all, but something posing as her, setting a clever trap. More importantly, what was this doing to his brother? He had looked so wasted afterward. His nose hadn't bled much, but that was little consolation given the fact it had bled at all. That couldn't be a good sign. Suddenly, Dean's voice broke through Sam's thoughts.

"Sam."

"Yeah, Dean?"

"I'm fine, go to sleep."

Pressing his eyelids shut against the whirring of his mind, Sam replied, "Yeah. You, too."

But it was several hours later before rest finally came to him_. After all this time, could it really be her?_ he wondered.

The next morning, Sam caught sight of Dean sitting on the front porch. He was wrapped up tightly in his familiar leather coat – a thousand yard stare planted on his face – still as death. Grabbing his own coat, the young man opened the door and stepped outside. Though the sun was shining brightly, the winter air was nippy, the wind sharp and cutting and he shivered against it. Taking a place beside his brother on the top step, Sam leaned his arms against his knees, hands clasped in the middle. A mirror image of his brother.

Arms grazing lightly, they sat in silence for a moment before the younger finally spoke, asking, "Feeling better?"

Dean blinked as if startled to find someone sitting next to him and then glanced at Sam, his emerald irises glinting in the sun, and answered, "Much." Then, after a pause, continued with, "Is that what you really came to ask?"

Shooting his brother an offended glare, Sam demanded, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Looking down, Dean murmured, "I just figure you've got more important things on your mind then my well-being. Things like Jessica."

Annoyed, but surprised at how easy his brother was making this, Sam answered, "Sure, it's on my mind, but I'm more concerned about how you're doing, Dean. You didn't look so good last night. Your damn nose was bleeding, man. Normal dreams don't make someone sick. But, it wasn't a normal dream, was it?"

"No, I guess not." Shaking his head, Dean smiled a little, hoping to dispel the tension between them. "But normal isn't the Winchester way, right?"

Chuckling a little, Sam agreed, "Yeah, that'd be too much to ask."

"Damn straight." Staring out ahead, Dean went on saying, "But I know you've been thinking about it. I know I would be." Then, looking at Sam, he said, "The problem is, little brother, I don't have any answers for you."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I still don't know what it's all about. I don't know why I'm having these dreams of Jessica. This is all new for me, man, and I don't know what to think."

Figuring as much, Sam nodded and said, "Okay. Just start by telling me what you remember."

"There's not much to tell or remember. It happens just like I described back at the hospital. Running, hallway, blue door, ghost girl. Except, now I know the girl is Jessica."

"Did she say anything?"

Pausing to think, Dean spoke almost as if to himself, "She seemed to know who I was. She knew my name and she said I had come _back_ to help her."

"Help her how?" Sam straightened, going alert and becoming tense once again.

"That's just it. I don't know how. She told me I was the only one who could help and then she touched me. That's when all hell broke loose and I woke up."

Quickly picking up on the connection, Sam asked, "So, you didn't experience any physical symptoms until she touched you?"

"Bingo."

"Huh. That _is_ interesting."

"Says you."

"Yeah, well, sorry, but that's a new one on me." Sam let the sentence trail off as his brain processed Dean's words. Unable to reach any solid conclusions, he looked back to his older brother and asked, "What now? I mean, how do we find out what she wants? Or even if it's really her?"

"We just do what we always do. Investigate, research, wait and see."

"You've gotta tell Missouri about this, Dean. Maybe she can help."

"No, Sam. I'm not ready to let someone go poking around in my head willy nilly."

"But-"

"Not a chance, not even for you. At least, not until we've exhausted all of _our_ options."

"Yeah, okay. But, if we can't find a way to help her – to figure this out – promise me you'll let Missouri try. Promise me, Dean."

"All right, fine, I promise. Now, are we done talking about this?"

Seeing his younger brother nod slightly, Dean turned back to the coloring sky. He hadn't missed the way his sibling's eyes had glistened in the light. He knew how important this was to Sam; he only hoped he wouldn't disappoint him.

Sam paused, then said, "Just one thing is bothering me."

Quirking an eyebrow, Dean asked, "Do I want to know?"

"Probably not, but I'm gonna tell you anyway," Sam said with a brief grin. "You were acting strange well before the dreaming began."

Rolling his eyes, Dean said, "Oh, here we go. Sam, I told you, I'm f-".

"Yeah, your fine, I get it." Sam paused, and then said, "But Dean, you're _not_ fine. You've got something else on your mind, I know it. Let me help…please."

Dean swallowed and looked down toward his boots, a frown between his eyes. He wasn't up to doing this battle today. His brother could be so tenacious and despite his own protests that he was fine, he knew that he really wasn't. Last night had left him feeling weakened and uncertain.

His voice whispered, "Sorry, little brother, but I don't think you can."

"Why not?" Then, seeing Dean start to shake his head no, Sam intervened, saying, "At least let me try, Dean. Give me that much, please."

For a long minute, Dean sat frozen, deciding on something. Sucking in his breath, he lifted his eyes to the horizon and asked, "Do you know what the demon is after, Sam? Do you understand what it wants from us…because I do – at least some of it."

Confused, Sam turned completely toward his sibling, his words tumbling out, "What? I don't understand, Dean. What does this have to do with anything?"

Visibly bracing himself, Dean answered, eyes cast down quickly before returning Sam's gaze, "You, Sam. It wants you, to use you somehow…turn you. I don't know what that means, exactly, but I know that's its intention. And, I know it'll stop at nothing to get what it wants."

"What?" Sam practically squeaked. "Dean, _how_ do you know?" Sam asked, shaking his head side to side, eyes imploring his brother to deny it.

"Well, for one, it told me. For another, I could feel its desire to have you. It craves you with a hunger that, quite honestly, scares the hell out of me. Especially when I could be the vehicle used to get what it wants from you."

Speechless, the younger brother sat agape, unsure of how to respond.

"What if I can't stop it, Sam? What if I can't keep you safe from this?" Dean asked, unable to meet his little brother's gaze. He stared at his thumbs as they gestured, hands still clasped, arms resting on his knees.

He couldn't believe he was telling Sam this. But, it had been eating his insides out, making it difficult to think about much else. Maybe Sam deserved to hear the truth. His little brother deserved to know that he might not be able to keep him safe – especially now, with this nightmare stuff depleting his already weakened condition. His body was healing, but those nightmares took so much from him. It scared him to think he might not be able to protect Sam. And worse, it terrified him to think he could be used to cause Sam's downfall.

Unaccustomed to his brother giving in so easily and sharing his inner fears with him, Sam thought his answer through carefully, leaving a space of silence hanging in the air between them.

Starting with the practical, Sam argued, "But Dean, that wasn't a powerful demon, it couldn't even possess you. Hell, I'm not even sure _what_ it was exactly, but I know it certainly wasn't _our_ demon."

"Yeah, Sam, I know that, too. I do. But…something just tells me that this…_thing_…was a harbinger of things to come. Maybe even a messenger. It knows the score. And, look at the damage it was able to cause, not even a full-fledged demon – acting more like an infection – but nearly enough to do the job and now…"

"But it didn't," Sam stated, confidence making his voice firm. "Together, we can do this. You and me. You've just got to have a little _faith_."

Something flickered across Dean's face. Faith. Sam's words reminded him of his time in Heaven. Faith, restored faith was what he needed – what he'd been given. Even so, he couldn't help the worrisome thoughts that had plagued him since coming back. It was so much easier to believe everything was going to be okay when he was there. Things were tougher when faith was all you had to get you by.

Suddenly, he wanted to share his experience with Sam, to tell him that they weren't alone in this fight against evil, but it was too personal to share. It had touched Dean in a place he wasn't willing to give away or share, not even with his brother – at least not _yet_.

Sitting up to stretch his back, Dean said, "Yeah, I guess you're right. Still, I'll feel a whole lot better if Dad and Jay find a way to weaken the demon, and maybe a strong protection ritual or something."

This faith stuff was going to take some practice. Rubbing at his aching chest and wincing, the elder brother fell back into silence once again. Catching the unconscious gesture and noting his older brother's still-too pale face, Sam decided it was time to go in.

Shivering on cue, he remarked suggestively, "You ready to go back inside, yet? It's frigid out here and I think Missouri just made a fresh pot of hot coffee."

Sniffling a little at the cold as if he just realized it was the dead of winter, Dean answered, "Yeah, I could use a cup about right now. Come on princess, let's get you warmed up."

When Dean moved to rise, he grimaced and touched his chest again, letting himself fall back down to the step.

"Damn, all that puking must've pulled my stitches," Dean sputtered, embarrassed at his weakness.

Out of his peripheral vision, he could see Sam's long, slender hand extended out to him, an offering of help. Grateful, Dean clasped his brother's hand and allowed himself to be pulled up, one hand held protectively over his chest. Together, they walked, shoulders brushing, back into the warmth of the house – moving in sync with one another as if they were of the same mind and body. Brothers, soldiers, and friends working as a single unit, moving with a single purpose toward whatever future awaited them and knowing that it was going to be okay as long as they had each other to lean on.

The End**  
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**a/n#2:** Special thanks to Mady Bay, Tidia, Claire Kennedy, Thru Terry's Eyes, Kohadril, Stony Angel and all the others who gave me their time and expertise in writing these chapters. Without them, this would've been complete rubbish and I'm indebted to each of them for teaching me many valuable lessons along the way. If you saw improvement as we went along, it's because these kind folks were patient enough to work with me through e-mails to teach me some of what their talented minds already knew. All mistakes and bad judgment calls are on me.

Recently, I've been going back over my earlier chapters, reading through them and updating them for posting at a new fan fic site, _Supernaturalville_, and I've got to say that you all have been very generous to me with your reviews. No way have I deserved to reach the six hundreds, though I'm flattered and grateful that I have. I was especially abhorred of the first four chapters, eeks! I mention this because, as I go through the story, I've been making subtle changes to make it a little better. I don't have time for a complete rewrite, but for those of you who like to re-read stuff, hopefully it reads just a tiny bit better than it did.

To my readers, whether you be a lurker or a reviewer, thank you so much for reading this whole thing. I realize in hindsight that I'd been better off splitting this in half and making two stories out of the one, but you live and you learn. I hope the ending was just right for you and not too overly done (yes, I know I was really pushing the hurt!Dean envelope by the end, but I HAD to set us up properly for the sequel, didn't I?) or in any way disappointing. I may take a brief detour before getting on to the sequel, but I do have plans on doing the Jessica thing as soon as I can.

Here we are 92,858 hits, 667 reviews, 191 alerts, and 148 favorites later! What a journey it was…and I have all of you to thank, so…

To all of the following, thank you so much for your reviews, they mean so much to me and were vital in keeping me going. When I had doubts and thought I should quit because I was convinced I sucked WAY out loud, one of you would save me with some kind words or supportive pep talk. Also, thank you to any of you who have recommended my story at some point in time whether I knew about it or not. Again, thanks to each of you (and if I missed anyone or got you down twice, my most sincere apologies). Please drop me one final line as you pass by on your way out – not because I deserve it, but because I'd like to hear your parting thoughts – and I hope to see you next time around:

Mady Bay (The best pep talker in the east, west, north and south), Claire Kennedy (thanks for hanging in there with me), gaelicspirit (Amanda, thank you for your repeated e-mails of encouragement), Thru Terry's Eyes (especially for your unending patience with me, I know I must've nearly drove you mad), Tidia (for coming on board at the last minute), Supernatural fan, Danijeal, KatieLB, SophieSaulie, Icewolfblackheart, PowrRangrFreeek, Zadrak, Wolvie Rogue-deansamlvr, MacCartney, piiuski, Ephemera2, Ani-maniac494, Nate and Jake, nobleblue, Lurkinshdws, sokerfreek922, daisymaygirl1, Thymine, heyesgirl, RavynJensen, Leah8723, Laneta C, Cailin, toyatezuka, ashlyns, jenna24de, snchills, Rae Artemis, aniki19, rockstarhobbit, Natalia Natale, Rhindon, Master Li, melanie, spootycup, jailey, angela, TangledPencils, RogueBludger, tvbatina, J.A. Carlton, brighette, drider,Joou Himeko Dah, Zadrak, cutie-pie-rockchic, pandora jazz, Lilly B., Nathanslilsis, kale, ChaiGrl, rhesa (thanks for your recommendations), MarieP, sams1ra, LiLcrueLangeL, talon81, faerie55, faith and justice, historylover, KatieMalfoy19, MJ, Chianna, Living in a fantasy, Spuffyshipper, girlofcandy, Melissa, teal-lover, SpookyClaire, maathatshepsut, warrior of the shadow, don.tcare, kera, tvqueen64, ShadowMayne, eddy6401, jettifer, Onari, JRAismine, princesspeanut, Isobel Swan, kaycomon, Boleyn, Kaisa, Ghostwriter, RekkaKouyuu,  
purehalo (who shares my strong passion for Jensen), angel679, Mystiksnake, Zoxx, Sakura123 (thanks for the rec and your honesty), drea, Cat2000, Brenny, shywalk, morning sunlight, Nae, krzykat1, nicol-leoraine, pinkphoenix1985,darktales,Becomingwhaturmeantobe, Raven524, Toxicangel, kokomocalifornia, LovinJackson, JustGray, Mishka89, virezz, mtuffy, Raytracer, kritters03, Shadows Dancing, SueJRA, teradanielle, Emrys1, RubyDragonJewel, pengwin-jibberish, Heart Of The Wizard, pinkphoenix1985, Kei, GB Freak1, Savage Shade, Kira, Alienmom, Peatrie, jlte2004, Kalonna, Varkelton, jailey, Iuliana, renniespice, Snlover, Mandy543, Lies-and-Truth, Allegra, alwaysateen, ClaireB , Cruelty, TopazGirl, Janissa11, Nana56, mtee1958, LeaMarie F. Metallium, Cuppa Char, JAFan, Sparkling Cherries, Justine, T.C., Naga, cruzing4jensen, vamoarribauruguay (you're such a nice person, keep smiling), irishgirl9, alaine1910, JazzyIrish, Steam Rolled Harry Potter, DrewFullerFanLife, wcfan, borys1848, Merrie, AuroraDannon, jjackles, TopazGirl86, Tree625, fierfactor, Landwing, creeper, H.T.Marie, deboritoes, Tacpebs, Colby's girl, sunnyjunedays, lavarockme, friendly, Dawn N, cat and everyone at LJ who has wandered over.

Love and hugs,

Nicole


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